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TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY 
IN THE CEVENNES 



TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY 
IN THE CEVENNES 



BY 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 



NEW YORK 

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 

1903 

\_All rights reserved] 



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My dear Sidney Colvin, 

The journey which this little book is 
to describe was very agreeable and fortunate for 
me. After an uncouth beginning, I had the best 
of luck to the end. But we are all travellers in 
what John Bunyan calls the wilderness of this 
world — all, too, travellers with a donkey ; and the 
best that we find in our travels is an honest 
friend. He is a fortunate voyager who finds many. 
We travel, indeed, to find them. They are the 
end and the reward of life. They keep us worthy 
of ourselves ; and when we are alone, we are only 
nearer to the absent. 

Every book is, in an intimate sense, a circular 
letter to the friends of him who writes it. They 
alone take his meaning ; they find private mes- 
sages, assurances of love, and expressions of grat- 
itude, dropped for them in every corner. The 
public is but a generous patron who defrays the 



vi Dedication 

postage. Yet though the letter is directed to all, 
we have an old and kindly custom of addressing 
it on the outside to one. Of what shall a man 
be proud, if he is not proud of his friends ? And 
so, my dear Sidney Colvin, it is with pride that I 
sign myself affectionately yours, 

R. L. S. 



CONTENTS 

VELAY 

PAOC 

The Donkey, the Pack, and the Pack-Saddle 3 

The Green Donkey-Driver .... 14 

I have a Goad 30 

UPPER GEVAUDAN 

A Camp in the Dark 45 

Cheylard and Luc 64 

OUR LADY OF THE SNOWS 

Father Apollinaris 75 

The Monks 84 

The Boarders 98 

UPPER GEVAUDAN {continued) 

Across the Goulet 11 1 

A Night among the Pines .... 117 



viii Contents 

THE COUNTRY OF THE CAMISARDS 

PAGE 

Over the Lozere 129 

Pont de Montvert 139 

In the Valley of the Tarn . . . .151 

Florac 169 

In the Valley of the Mimente . . .174 
The Heart of the Country .... 182 

The Last Day 196 

Farewell, Modestine 206 



VELAY 



'Many are the mighty things, 
and nought is more mighty 
than man. . . . He masters 
by his devices the tenant of 
the fields. ' — Sophocles. 

* Who hath loosed the bands of 
the wild ass ? ' — Job. 






VELAY 

THE DONKEY, THE PACK, AND THE 
PACK-SADDLE 

T N a little place called Le Monastier, in a 
pleasant highland valley fifteen miles 
from Le Puy, I spent about a month of fine 
days. Monastier is notable for the making 
of lace, for drunkenness, for freedom of 
language, and for unparalleled political 
dissension. There are adherents of each 
of the four French parties — Legitimists, 
Orleanists, Imperialists, and Republicans — 
in this little mountain-town ; and they all 
hate, loathe, decry, and calumniate each 
other. Except for business purposes, or 
to give each other the lie in a tavern brawl, 
they have laid aside even the civility of 



4 Velay 

speech. 'Tis a mere mountain Poland, In 
the midst of this Babylon I found myself 
a rallying-point ; every one was anxious to 
be kind and helpful to the stranger. This 
was not merely from the natural hospitality 
of mountain people, nor even from the 
surprise with which I was regarded as a 
man living of his own free will in Le Monas- 
ter, when he might just as well have lived 
anywhere else in this big world ; it arose 
a good deal from my projected excursion 
southward through the Cevennes. A trav- 
eller of my sort was a thing hitherto un- 
heard of in that district. I was looked 
upon with contempt, like a man who should 
project a journey to the moon, but yet 
with a respectful interest, like one setting 
forth for the inclement Pole. All were 
ready to help in my preparations ; a crowd 
of sympathisers supported me at the criti- 
cal moment of a bargain ; not a step was 
taken but was heralded by glasses round 
and celebrated by a dinner or a breakfast. 

It was already hard upon October before 
I was ready to set forth, and at the high 



Donkey \ Pack, and Pack-Saddle 5 

altitudes over which my road lay there was 
no Indian summer to be looked for. I was 
determined, if not to camp out, at least to 
have the means of camping out in my pos- 
session; for there is nothing more harass- 
ing to an easy mind than the necessity 
of reaching shelter by dusk, and the hospi- 
tality of a village inn is not always to be 
reckoned sure by those who trudge on 
foot. A tent, above all for a solitary trav- 
eller, is troublesome to pitch, and trouble- 
some to strike again ; and even on the 
march it forms a conspicuous feature in 
your baggage. A sleeping-sack, on the 
other hand, is always ready — you have only 
to get into it ; it serves a double purpose — 
a bed by night, a portmanteau by day; and 
it does not advertise your intention of 
camping out to every curious passer-by. 
This is a huge point. If the camp is not 
secret, it is but a troubled resting-place ; 
you become a public character ; the con- 
vivial rustic visits your bedside after an 
early supper; and you must sleep with one 
eye open, and be up before the day. I 



6 Velay 

decided on a sleeping-sack ; and after 
repeated visits to Le Puy, and a deal of 
high living for myself and my advisers, a 
sleeping-sack was designed, constructed, 
and triumphally brought home. 

This child of my invention was nearly six 
feet square, exclusive of two triangular flaps 
to serve as a pillow by night and as the top 
and bottom of the sack by day. I call it 
* the sack/ but it was never a sack by more 
than courtesy : only a sort of long roll or 
sausage, green water-proof cart-cloth with- 
out and blue sheep's fur within. It was 
commodious as a valise, warm and dry for 
a bed. There was luxurious turning room 
for one; and at a pinch the thing might 
serve for two. I could bury myself in it up 
to the neck ; for my head I trusted to a fur 
cap, with a hood to fold down over my 
ears, and a band to pass under my nose like 
a respirator ; and in case of heavy rain I 
proposed to make myself a little tent, or 
tentlet, with my water-proof coat, three 
stones, and a bent branch. 

It will readily be conceived that I could 



Donkey, Pack, and Pack-Saddle 7 

not carry this huge package on my own, 
merely human, shoulders. It remained to 
choose a beast of burden. Now, a horse is 
a fine lady among animals, flighty, timid, 
delicate in eating, of tender health ; he is 
too valuable and too restive to be left 
alone, so that you are chained to your 
brute as to a fellow galley-slave ; a danger- 
ous road puts him out of his wits ; in short, 
he's an uncertain and exacting ally, and 
adds thirty-fold to the troubles of the 
voyager. What I required was something 
cheap and small and hardy, and of a stolid 
and peaceful temper ; and all these requi- 
sites pointed to a donkey. 

There dwelt an old man in Monastier, of 
rather unsound intellect according to some, 
much followed by street-boys, and known 
to fame as Father Adam. Father Adam 
had a cart, and to draw the cart a diminu- 
tive she-ass, not much bigger than a dog, 
the colour of a mouse, with a kindly eye 
and a determined under-jaw. There was 
something neat and high-bred, a quakerish 
elegance, about the rogue that hit my fancy 



8 Velay 

on the spot. Our first interview was in 
Monastier market-place. To prove her 
good temper, one child after another was 
set upon her back to ride, and one after 
another went head over heels into the air ; 
until a want of confidence began to reign 
in youthful bosoms, and the experiment 
was discontinued from a dearth of subjects. 
I was already backed by a deputation of 
my friends ; but as if this were not enough, 
all the buyers and sellers came round and 
helped me in the bargain ; and the ass and 
I and Father Adam were the centre of a 
hubbub for near half an hour. At length 
she passed into my service for the consider- 
ation of sixty-five francs and a glass of 
brandy. The sack had already cost eighty 
francs and two glasses of beer; so that Mo- 
destine, as I instantly baptised her, was 
upon all accounts the cheaper article. In- 
deed, that was as it should be ; for she was 
only an appurtenance of my mattress, or 
self-acting bedstead on four castors. 

I had a last interview with Father Adam 
in a billiard-room at the witching hour of 



Donkey, Pack, and Pack-Saddle 9 

dawn, when I administered the brandy. 
He professed himself greatly touched by 
the separation, and declared he had often 
bought white bread for the donkey when 
he had been content with black bread for 
himself ; but this, according to the best 
authorities, must have been a flight of 
fancy. He had a name in the village for 
brutally misusing the ass ; yet it is certain 
that he shed a tear, and the tear made a 
clean mark down one cheek. 

By the advice of a fallacious local sad- 
dler, a leather pad was made for me with 
rings to fasten on my bundle ; and I 
thoughtfully completed my kit and ar- 
ranged my toilette. By way of armoury 
and utensils, I took a revolver, a little 
spirit-lamp and pan, a lantern and some 
halfpenny candles, a jack-knife and a large 
leather flask. The main cargo consisted of 
two entire changes of warm clothing — be- 
sides my travelling wear of country velvet- 
een, pilot-coat, and knitted spencer — some 
books, and my railway-rug, which, being, 
also in the form of a bag, made me a dou- 



io Velay 

ble castle for cold nights. The permanent 
larder was represented by cakes of choco- 
late and tins of Bologna sausage. All this, 
except what I carried about my person, 
was easily stowed into the sheepskin bag ; 
and by good fortune I threw in my empty 
knapsack, rather for convenience of car- 
riage than from any thought that I should 
want it on my journey. For more imme- 
diate needs, I took a leg of cold mutton, a 
bottle of Beaujolais, an empty bottle to 
carry milk, an egg-beater, and a consider- 
able quantity of black bread and white, 
like Father Adam, for myself and donkey, 
only in my scheme of things the destina- 
tions were reversed. 

Monastrians, of all shades of thought in 
politics, had agreed in threatening me with 
many ludicrous misadventures, and with 
sudden death in many surprising forms. 
Cold, wolves, robbers, above all the noc- 
turnal practical joker, were daily and elo- 
quently forced on my attention. Yet in 
these vaticinations, the true, patent danger 
was left out. Like Christian, it was from 



Donkey, Pack, and Pack-Saddle n 

my pack I suffered by the way. Before 
telling my own mishaps, let me, in two 
words, relate the lesson of my experience. 
If the pack is well strapped at the ends, 
and hung at full length — not doubled, for 
your life — across the pack-saddle, the trav- 
eller is safe. The saddle will certainly not 
fit, such is the imperfection of our transi- 
tory life ; it will assuredly topple and tend 
to overset ; but there are stones on every 
roadside, and a man soon learns the art of 
correcting any tendency to overbalance 
with a well-adjusted stone. 

On the day of my departure I was up a 
little after five ; by six, we began to load 
the donkey ; and ten minutes after, my 
hopes were in the dust. The pad would 
not stay on Modestine s back for half a 
moment. I returned it to its maker, with 
whom I had so contumelious a passage 
that the street outside was crowded from 
wall to wall with gossips looking on and 
listening. The pad changed hands with 
much vivacity ; perhaps it would be more 
descriptive to say that we threw it at each 



12 



Velay 



other's heads ; and, at any rate, we were 
very warm and unfriendly, and spoke with 
a deal of freedom. 

I had a common donkey pack-saddle — a 
barde, as they call it — fitted upon Modes- 
tine ; and once more loaded her with my 
effects. The doubled sack, my pilot-coat 
(for it was warm, and I was to walk in my 
waistcoat), a great bar of black bread, and 
an open basket containing the white bread, 
the mutton, and the bottles, were all 
corded together in a very elaborate system 
of knots, and I looked on the result with 
fatuous content. In such a monstrous 
deck-cargo, all poised above the donkey's 
shoulders, with nothing below to balance, 
on a brand-new pack-saddle that had not 
yet been worn to fit the animal, and 
fastened with brand-new girths that might 
be expected to stretch and slacken by the 
way, even a very careless traveller should 
have seen disaster brewing. That elabo- 
rate system of knots, again, was the work 
of too many sympathisers to be very art- 
fully designed. It is true they tightened 



Donkey, Pack, and Pack-Saddle 13 

the cords with a will ; as many as three 
at a time would have a foot against 
Modestine's quarters, and be hauling with 
clenched teeth ; but I learned afterwards 
that one thoughtful person, without any 
exercise of force, can make a more solid 
job than half a dozen heated and enthusi- 
astic grooms. I was then but a novice ; 
even after the misadventure of the pad 
nothing could disturb my security, and I 
went forth from the stable-door as an ox 
goeth to the slaughter. 



THE GREEN DONKEY-DRIVER 

THE bell of Monastier was just striking 
nine as I got quit of these preliminary 
troubles and descended the hill through the 
common. As long as I was within sight of 
the windows, a secret shame and the fear 
of some laughable defeat withheld me from 
tampering with Modestine. She tripped 
along upon her four small hoofs with a 
sober daintiness of gait ; from time to time 
she shook her ears or her tail ; and she 
looked so small under the bundle that my 
mind misgave me. We got across the ford 
without difficulty — there was no doubt 
about the matter, she was docility itself — 
and once on the other bank, where the road 
begins to mount through pine-woods, I took 
in my right hand the unhallowed staff, and 
with a quaking spirit applied it to the 
donkey. Modestine brisked up her pace for 
perhaps three steps, and then relapsed into 



The Green Donkey-Driver 15 

her former minuet. Another application 
had the same effect, and so with the third. 
I am worthy the name of an Englishman, 
and it goes against my conscience to lay 
my hand rudely on a female. I desisted, 
and looked her all over from head to foot ; 
the poor brute's knees were trembling and 
her breathing was distressed ; it was plain 
that she could go no faster on a hill. God 
forbid, thought I, that I should brutalise 
this innocent creature ; let her go at her 
own pace, and let me patiently follow. 

What that pace was, there is no word 
mean enough to describe ; it was something 
as much slower than a walk as a walk is 
slower than a run ; it kept me hanging on 
each foot for an incredible length of time ; 
in five minutes it exhausted the spirit and 
set up a fever in all the muscles of the leg. 
And yet I had to keep close at hand and 
measure my advance exactly upon hers ; 
for if I dropped a few yards into the rear, or 
went on a few yards ahead, Modestine came 
instantly to a halt and began to browse. 
The thought that this was to last from here 



16 Velay 

to Alais nearly broke my heart. Of all 
conceivable journeys, this promised to be 
the most tedious. I tried to tell myself it 
was a lovely day ; I tried to charm my fore- 
boding spirit with tobacco ; but I had a 
vision ever present to me of the long, long 
roads, up hill and down dale, and a pair of 
figures ever infinitesimally moving, foot by 
foot, a yard to the minute, and, like things 
enchanted in a nightmare, approaching no 
nearer to the goal. 

In the mean time there came up behind 
us a tall peasant, perhaps forty years of 
age, of an ironical snuffy countenance, and 
arrayed in the green tail-coat of the coun- 
try. He overtook us hand over hand, and 
stopped to consider our pitiful advance. 

* Your donkey,' says he, ' is very old ? ' 

I told him, I believed not. 

Then, he supposed, we had come far. 

I told him, we had but newly left Monas- 
tier. 

1 Et vous marchez comme ga / ' cried he ; 
and, throwing back his head, he laughed 
long and heartily. I watched him, half 



The Green Donkey-Driver 17 

prepared to feel offended, until he had 
satisfied his mirth ; and then, ' You must 
have no pity on these animals,' said he ; 
and, plucking a switch out of a thicket, he 
began to lace Modestine about the stern- 
works, uttering a cry. The rogue pricked 
up her ears and broke into a good round 
pace, which she kept up without flagging, 
and without exhibiting the least symptom 
of distress, as long as the peasant kept beside 
us. Her former panting and shaking had 
been, I regret to say, a piece of comedy. 

My deus ex machind, before he left me, 
supplied some excellent, if inhumane, ad- 
vice ; presented me with the switch, which 
he declared she would feel more tenderly 
than my cane ; and finally taught me the 
true cry or masonic word of donkey-drivers, 
' Proot ! ' All the time, he regarded me 
with a comical incredulous air, which was 
embarrassing to confront ; and smiled over 
my donkey-driving, as I might have smiled 
over his orthography, or his green tail-coat. 
But it was not my turn for the moment. 

I was proud of my new lore, and thought 



1 8 Velay 

I had learned the art to perfection. And 
certainly Modestine did wonders for the 
rest of the forenoon, and I had a breathing 
space to look about me. It was Sabbath ; 
the mountain-fields were all vacant in the 
sunshine; and as we came down through 
St. Martin de Frugeres, the church was 
crowded to the door, there were people 
kneeling without upon the steps, and the 
sound of the priest's chanting came forth 
out of the dim interior. It gave me a 
home feeling on the spot ; for I am a 
countryman of the Sabbath, so to speak, 
and all Sabbath observances, like a Scotch 
accent, strike in me mixed feelings, grate- 
ful and the reverse. It is only a traveller, 
hurrying by like a person from another 
planet, who can rightly enjoy the peace 
and beauty of the great ascetic feast. The 
sight of the resting country does his spirit 
good. There is something better than 
music in the wide unusual silence ; and it 
disposes him to amiable thoughts, like the 
sound of a little river or the warmth of 
sunlight. 



The Green Donkey-Driver 19 

In this pleasant humour I came down 
the hill to where Goudet stands in a green 
end of a valley, with Chdteau Beaufort op- 
posite upon a rocky steep, and the stream, 
as clear as crystal, lying in a deep pool be- 
tween them. Above and below, you may 
hear it wimpling over the stones, an ami- 
able stripling of a river, which it seems 
absurd to call the Loire. On all sides, 
Goudet is shut in by mountains ; rocky foot- 
paths, practicable at best for donkeys, join 
it to the outer world of France ; and the 
men and women drink and swear, in their 
green corner, or look up at the snow-clad 
peaks in winter from the threshold of their 
homes, in an isolation, you would think, 
like that of Homer s Cyclops. But it is not 
so ; the postman reaches Goudet with the 
letter-bag ; the aspiring youth of Goudet 
are within a day's walk of the railway at 
Le Puy ; and here in the inn you may find 
an engraved portrait of the host's nephew, 
Re'gis Senac, * Professor of Fencing and 
Champion Of the two Americas' a distinc- 
tion gained by him, along with the sum of 



20 Velay 

five hundred dollars, at Tamrnany Hall, 
New York, on the ioth April 1876. 

I hurried over my midday meal, and was 
early forth again. But, alas, as we climbed 
the interminable hill upon the other side, 
' Proot ! ' seemed to have lost its virtue. 
I prooted like a lion, I prooted melliflu- 
ously like a sucking-dove ; but Modestine 
would be neither softened nor intimidated. 
She held doggedly to her pace ; nothing 
but a blow would move her, and that only 
for a second. I must follow at her heels, 
incessantly belabouring. A moment's pause 
in this ignoble toil, and she relapsed into 
her own private gait. I think I never 
heard of any one in as mean a situation. 
I must reach the lake of Bouchet, where I 
meant to camp, before sundown, and, to 
have even a hope of this, I must instantly 
maltreat this uncomplaining animal. The 
sound of my own blows sickened me. 
Once, when I looked at her, she had a faint 
resemblance to a lady of my acquaintance 
who formerly loaded me with kindness; and 
this increased my horror of my cruelty. 



The Green Donkey-Driver 21 

To make matters worse, we encountered 
another donkey, ranging at will upon the 
roadside ; and this donkey chanced to be a 
gentleman. He and Modestine met nicker- 
ing for joy, and I had to separate the pair 
and beat down their young romance with a 
renewed and feverish bastinado. If the 
other donkey had had the heart of a male 
under his hide, he would have fallen upon 
me tooth and hoof ; and this was a kind of 
consolation — he was plainly unworthy of 
Modestine 's affection. But the incident 
saddened me, as did everything that spoke 
of my donkey's sex. 

It was blazing hot up the valley, wind- 
less, with vehement sun upon my shoulders ; 
and I had to labour so consistently with my 
stick that the sweat ran into my eyes. 
Every five minutes, too, the pack, the 
basket, and the pilot-coat would take an 
ugly slew to one side or the other ; and I 
had to stop Modestine, just when I had got 
her to a tolerable pace of about two miles 
an hour, to tug, push, shoulder, and re- 
adjust the load. And at last, in the village 



22 Velay 

of Ussel, saddle and all, the whole hypothec 
turned round and grovelled in the dust 
below the donkey's belly. She, none better 
pleased, incontinently drew up and seemed 
to smile ; and a party of one man, two 
women, and two children came up, and, 
standing round me in a half-circle, encour- 
aged her by their example. 

I had the devil's own trouble to get the 
thing righted ; and the instant I had done 
so, without hesitation, it toppled and fell 
down upon the other side. Judge if I was 
hot ! And yet not a hand was offered to 
assist me. The man, indeed, told me I 
ought to have a package of a different shape. 
I suggested, if he knew nothing better to 
the point in my predicament, he might 
hold his tongue. And the good-natured 
dog agreed with me smilingly. It was 
the most despicable fix. I must plainly 
content myself with the pack iox Mo destine , 
and take the following items for my own 
share of the portage : a cane, a quart flask, 
a pilot-jacket heavily weighted in the pock- 
ets, two pounds of black bread, and an 



The Green Donkey-Driver 23 

open basket full of meats and bottles. I 
believe I may say I am not devoid of great- 
ness of soul ; for I did not recoil from this 
infamous burden. I disposed it, Heaven 
knows how, so as to be mildly portable, 
and then proceeded to steer Modestine 
through the village. She tried, as was 
indeed her invariable habit, to enter every 
house and every courtyard in the whole 
length ; and, encumbered as I was, without 
a hand to help myself, no words can render 
an idea of my difficulties. A priest, with 
six or seven others, was examining a church 
in process of repair, and he and his acolytes 
laughed loudly as they saw my plight. I 
remembered having laughed myself when 
I had seen good men struggling with ad- 
versity in the person of a jackass, and the 
recollection filled me with penitence. That 
was in my old light days, before this trou- 
ble came upon me. God knows at least 
that I shall never laugh again, thought I. 
But O, what a cruel thing is a farce to 
those engaged in it ! 

A little out of the village, Modestine, filled 



24 Velay 

with the demon, set her heart upon a by. 
road, and positively refused to leave it. I 
dropped all my bundles, and, I am ashamed 
to say, struck the poor sinner twice across 
the face. It was pitiful to see her lift up 
her head with shut eyes, as if waiting for 
another blow. I came very near crying ; 
but I did a wiser thing than that, and sat 
squarely down by the roadside to consider 
my situation under the cheerful influence 
of tobacco and a nip of brandy. Modestine, 
in the mean while, munched some black 
bread with a contrite hypocritical air. It 
was plain that I must make a sacrifice to 
the gods of shipwreck. I threw away the 
empty bottle destined to carry milk ; I threw 
away my own white bread, and, disdaining 
to act by general average, kept the black 
bread for Modestine ; lastly, I threw away 
the cold leg of mutton and the egg-whisk, 
although this last was dear to my heart. 
Thus I found room for everything in the 
basket, and even stowed the boating-coat 
on the top. By means of an end of cord I 
slung it under one arm ; and although the 



The Green Donkey-Driver 25 

cord cut my shoulder, and the jacket hung 
almost to the ground, it was with a heart 
greatly lightened that I set forth again. 

I had now an arm free to thrash Modes- 
tine, and cruelly I chastised her. If I 
were to reach the lakeside before dark, she 
must bestir her little shanks to some tune. 
Already the sun had gone down into a 
windy-looking mist ; and although there 
were still a few streaks of gold far off to the 
east on the hills and the black fir-woods, all 
was cold and gray about our onward path. 
An infinity of little country by-roads led 
hither and thither among the fields. It 
was the most pointless labyrinth. I could 
see my destination overhead, or rather the 
peak that dominates it ; but choose as I 
pleased, the roads always ended by turning 
away from it, and sneaking back towards 
the valley, or northward along the margin 
of the hills. The failing light, the waning 
colour, the naked, unhomely, stony country 
through which I was travelling, threw me 
into some despondency. I promise you, 
the stick was not idle ; I think every 



26 Velay 

decent step that Modestine took must have 
cost me at least two emphatic blows. 
There was not another sound in the neigh- 
bourhood but that of my unwearying basti- 
nado. 

Suddenly, in the midst of my toils, the 
load once more bit the dust, and, as by 
enchantment, all the cords were simultane- 
ously loosened, and the road scattered with 
my dear possessions. The packing was to 
begin again from the beginning ; and as I 
had to invent a new and better system, I 
do not doubt but I lost half an hour. It 
began to be dusk in earnest as I reached 
a wilderness of turf and stones. It had 
the air of being a road which should lead 
everywhere at the same time ; and I was 
falling into something not unlike despair 
when I saw two figures stalking towards 
me over the stones. They walked one 
behind the other like tramps, but their 
pace was remarkable. The son led the 
way, a tall, ill-made, sombre, Scotch-look- 
ing man ; the mother followed, all in her 
Sunday's best, with an elegantly-embroid- 



The Green Donkey-Driver 27 

ered ribbon to her cap, and a new felt hat 
atop, and proffering, as she strode along 
with kilted petticoats, a string of obscene 
and blasphemous oaths. 

I hailed the son and asked him my direc- 
tion. He pointed loosely west and north- 
west, muttered an inaudible comment, and, 
without slacking his pace for an instant, 
stalked on, as he was going, right athwart 
my path. The mother followed without 
so much as raising her head. I shouted 
and shouted after them, but they continued 
to scale the hillside, and turned a deaf ear 
to my outcries. At last, leaving Modestine 
by herself, I was constrained to run after 
them, hailing the while. They stopped as 
I drew near, the mother still cursing; and 
I could see she was a handsome, motherly, 
respectable-looking woman. The son once 
more answered me roughly and inaudibly, 
and was for setting out again. But this 
time I simply collared the mother, who 
was nearest me, and, apologising for my 
violence, declared that I could not let 
them go until they had put me on my 



28 Velay 

road. They were neither of them offended 
— rather mollified than otherwise ; told me 
I had only to follow them ; and then the 
mother asked me what I wanted by the lake 
at such an hour. I replied, in the Scotch 
manner, by inquiring if she had far to go 
herself. She told me, with another oath, 
that she had an hour and a half's road 
before her. And then, without salutation, 
the pair strode forward again up the hill- 
side in the gathering dusk. 

I returned for Modestine, pushed her 
briskly forward, and, after a sharp ascent 
of twenty minutes, reached the edge of a 
plateau. The view, looking back on my 
day's journey, was both wild and sad. 
Mount Mfeenc and the peaks beyond St. 
Julien stood out in trenchant gloom against 
a cold glitter in the east ; and the interven- 
ing field of hills had fallen together into 
one broad wash of shadow, except here and 
there the outline of a wooded sugar-loaf in 
black, here and there a white irregular 
patch to represent a cultivated farm, and 
here and there a blot where the Loire, the 



The Green Donkey-Driver 29 

Gazeille, or the Laussonne wandered in a 
gorge. 

Soon we were on a high-road, and sur- 
prise seized on my mind as I beheld a vil- 
lage of some magnitude close at hand ; for 
I had been told that the neighbourhood of 
the lake was uninhabited except by trout. 
The road smoked in the twilight with chil- 
dren driving home cattle from the fields ; 
and a pair of mounted stride-legged women, 
hat and cap and all, dashed past me at a 
hammering trot from the canton where they 
had been to church and market. I asked 
one of the children where I was. At Bou- 
chet St. Nicolas, he told me. Thither, about 
a mile south of my destination, and on the 
other side of a respectable summit, had 
these confused roads and treacherous peas- 
antry conducted me. My shoulder was cut, 
so that it hurt sharply ; my arm ached like 
toothache from perpetual beating ; I gave 
up the lake and my design to camp, and 
asked for the auberge. 



I HAVE A GOAD 

HTHE auberge of Bouchet St. Nicolas was 
among the least pretentious I have ever 
visited ; but I saw many more of the like 
upon my journey. Indeed, it was typical 
of these French highlands. Imagine a cot- 
tage of two stories, with a bench before the 
door ; the stable and kitchen in a suite, so 
that Modestine and I could hear each other 
dining ; furniture of the plainest, earthern 
floors, a single bedchamber for travellers, 
and that without any convenience but beds. 
In the kitchen cooking and eating go for- 
ward side by side, and the family sleep at 
night. Any one who has a fancy to wash 
must do so in public at the common table. 
The food is sometimes spare ; hard fish and 
omelette have been my portion more than 
once ; the wine is of the smallest, the 
brandy abominable to man ; and the visit of 
a fat sow, grouting under the table and 



/ have a Goad 3* 

rubbing against your legs, is no impossible 
accompaniment to dinner. 

But the people of the inn, in nine cases 
out of ten, show themselves friendly and 
considerate. As soon as you cross the 
doors you cease to be a stranger ; and 
although these peasantry are rude and for- 
bidding on the highway, they show a 
tincture of kind breeding when you share 
their hearth. At Bouchet, for instance, I 
uncorked my bottle of Beaujolais, and 
asked the host to join me. He would take 
but little. 

* I am an amateur of such wine, do you 
see ? ' he said, * and I am capable of leaving 
you not enough.' 

In these hedge-inns the traveller is ex- 
pected to eat with his own knife ; unless 
he ask, no other will be supplied: with a 
glass, a whang of bread, and an iron fork, 
the table is completely laid. My knife was 
cordially admired by the landlord of 
Bouchet, and the spring filled him with 
wonder. 

" I should never have guessed that,' he 



32 Velay 

said. ' I would bet,' he added, weighing 
it in his hand, ' that this cost you not less 
than five francs.' 

When I told him it had cost me twenty, 
his jaw dropped. 

He was a mild, handsome, sensible, 
friendly old man, astonishingly ignorant. 
His wife, who was not so pleasant in her 
manners, knew how to read, although I do 
not suppose she ever did so. She had a 
share of brains and spoke with a cutting 
emphasis, like one who ruled the roast. 

* My man knows nothing/ she said, with 
an angry nod ; * he is like the beasts.' 

And the old gentleman signified acquies- 
cence with his head. There was no con- 
tempt on her part, and no shame on his ; 
the facts were accepted loyally, and no 
more about the matter. 

I was tightly cross-examined about my 
journey ; and the lady understood in a 
moment, and sketched out what I should 
put into my book when I got home. 
* Whether people harvest or not in such or 
such a place ; if there were forests ; studies 



/ have a Goad 33 

of manners ; what, for example, I and the 
master of the house say to you ; the 
beauties of Nature, and all that.' And she 
interrogated me with a look. 

' It is just that,' said I. 

* You see,' she added to her husband, * I 
understood that.' 

They were both much interested by the 
story of my misadventures. 

' In the morning/ said the husband, ' I 
will make you something better than your 
cane. Such a beast as that feels nothing ; 
it is in the proverb — dur comme un dne ; 
you might beat her insensible with a 
cudgel, and yet you would arrive nowhere/ 

Something better! I little knew what 
he was offering. 

The sleeping-room was furnished with 
two beds. I had one ; and I will own I 
was a little abashed to find a young man 
and his wife and child in the act of mount- 
ing into the other. This was my first 
experience of the sort ; and if I am always 
to feel equally silly and extraneous, I 
pray God it be my last as well. I kept 



34 Velay 

my eyes to myself, and know nothing of 
the woman except that she had beautiful 
arms, and seemed no whit embarrassed 
by my appearance. As a matter of fact, 
the situation was more trying to me than 
to the pair. A pair keep each other in 
countenance ; it is the single gentleman 
who has to blush. But I could not help 
attributing my sentiments to the husband, 
and sought to conciliate his tolerance with 
a cup of brandy from my flask. He told 
me that he was a cooper of Alais travelling 
to St. Etienne in search of work, and that 
in his spare moments he followed the fatal 
calling of a maker of matches. Me he 
readily enough divined to be a brandy 
merchant. 

I was up first in the morning (Monday, 
September 23d), and hastened my toilette 
guiltily, so as to leave a clear field for 
madam, the cooper's wife. I drank a bowl 
of milk, and set off to explore the neigh- 
bourhood of Bouchet. It was perishing 
cold, a gray, windy, wintry morning ; misty 
clouds flew fast and low ; the wind piped 



/ have a Goad 35 

over the naked platform ; and the only- 
speck of colour was away behind Mount 
Mtzenc and the eastern hills, where the sky 
still wore the orange of the dawn. 

It was five in the morning, and four 
thousand feet above the sea ; and I had to 
bury my hands in my pockets and trot. 
People were trooping out to the labours of 
the field by twos and threes, and all turned 
round to stare upon the stranger. I had 
seen them coming back last night, I saw 
them going afield again ; and there was the 
life of Bouchet in a nutshell. 

When I came back to the inn for a bit of 
breakfast, the landlady was in the kitchen 
combing out her daughter's hair; and I 
made her my compliments upon its beauty. 

' O no,' said the mother ; ' it is not so 
beautiful as it ought to be. Look, it is too 
fine.' 

Thus does a wise peasantry console itself 
under adverse physical circumstances, and, 
by a startling democratic process, the de- 
fects of the majority decide the type of 
beauty. 



36 Velay 

* And where/ said I, ' is monsieur? * 
1 The master of the house is up-stairs,' 
she answered, * making you a goad.' 

Blessed be the man who invented goads ! 
Blessed the innkeeper of Bouchet St. Nicolas, 
who introduced me to their use ! This 
plain wand, with an eighth of an inch of 
pin, was indeed a sceptre when he put it in 
my hands. Thenceforward Modestine was 
my slave. A prick, and she passed the 
most inviting stable-door. A prick, and 
she broke forth into a gallant little trotlet 
that devoured the miles. It was not a re- 
markable speed, when all was said ; and we 
took four hours to cover ten miles at the 
best of it. But what a heavenly change 
since yesterday ! No more wielding of the 
ugly cudgel ; no more flailing with an ach- 
ing arm ; no more broadsword exercise, but 
a discreet and gentlemanly fence. And 
what although now and then a drop of 
blood should appear on Modestine s mouse- 
coloured wedge-like rump ? I should have 
preferred it otherwise, indeed ; but yester- 
day's exploits had purged my heart of all 



/ have a Goad 37 

humanity. The perverse little devil, since 
she would not be taken with kindness, 
must even go with pricking. 

It was bleak and bitter cold, and, except 
a cavalcade of stride-legged ladies and a 
pair of post-runners, the road was dead 
solitary all the way to Pradelles. I scarce 
remember an incident but one. A hand- 
some foal with a bell about his neck came 
charging up to us upon a stretch of com- 
mon, sniffed the air martially as one about 
to do great deeds, and, suddenly thinking 
otherwise in his green young heart, put 
about and galloped off as he had come, the 
bell tinkling in the wind. For a long while 
afterwards I saw his noble attitude as he 
drew up, and heard the note of his bell ; 
and when I struck the high-road, the song 
of the telegraph-wires seemed to continue 
the same music. 

Pradelles stands on a hillside, high above 
the Allier, surrounded by rich meadows. 
They were cutting aftermath on all sides, 
which gave the neighbourhood, this gusty 
autumn morning, an untimely smell of hay. 



38 Velay 

On the opposite bank of the Allier the land 
kept mounting for miles to the horizon : a 
tanned and sallow autumn landscape, with 
black blots of fir-wood and white roads 
wandering through the hills. Over all this 
the clouds shed a uniform and purplish 
shadow, sad and somewhat menacing, exag- 
gerating height and distance, and throwing 
into still higher relief the twisted ribbons 
of the highway. It was a cheerless pros- 
pect, but one stimulating to a traveller. 
For I was now upon the limit of Velay, and 
all that I beheld lay in another country — 
wild Ge'vaudan, mountainous, uncultivated, 
and but recently disforested from terror of 
the wolves. 

Wolves, alas, like bandits, seem to flee 
the traveller's advance ; and you may trudge 
through all our comfortable Europe, and 
not meet with an adventure worth the 
name. But here, if anywhere, a man was 
on the frontiers of hope. For this was the 
land of the ever-memorable Beast, the 
Napoleon Buonaparte of wolves. What a 
career was his ! He lived ten months at 



/ have a Goad 39 

free quarters in Ge'vaudan and Vivarais ; 
he ate women and children and ' shepherd- 
esses celebrated for their beauty ; ' he pur- 
sued armed horsemen ; he has been seen at 
broad noonday chasing a postchaise and 
outrider along the king's high-road, and 
chaise and outrider fleeing before him at 
the gallop. He was placarded like a polit- 
ical offender, and ten thousand francs were 
offered for his head. And yet, when he 
was shot and sent to Versailles, behold ! a 
common wolf, and even small for that. 
* Though I could reach from pole to pole/ 
sang Alexander Pope ; the Little Corporal 
shook Europe ; and if all wolves had been 
as this wolf, they would have changed the 
history of man. M. Elie Berthet has made 
him the hero of a novel, which I have read, 
and do not wish to read again. 

I hurried over my lunch, and was proof 
against the landlady's desire that I should 
visit our Lady of Pradelles, ' who performed 
many miracles, although she was of wood ; ' 
and before three-quarters of an hour I was 
goading Modestine down the steep descent 



4o Velay 

that leads to Langogne on the A liter. On 
both sides of the road, in big dusty fields, 
farmers were preparing for next Spring. 
Every fifty yards a yoke of great-necked 
stolid oxen were patiently haling at the 
plough. I saw one of these mild formida- 
ble servants of the glebe, who took a sud- 
den interest in Modestine and me. The 
furrow down which he was journeying lay 
at an angle to the road, and his head was 
solidly fixed to the yoke like those of 
caryatides below a ponderous cornice ; but 
he screwed round his big honest eyes and 
followed us with a ruminating look, until 
his master bade him turn the plough and 
proceed to reascend the field. From all 
these furrowing ploughshares, from the feet 
of oxen, from a labourer here and there 
who was breaking the dry clods with a hoe, 
the wind carried away a thin dust like so 
much smoke. It was a fine, busy, breath- 
ing, rustic landscape ; and as I continued 
to descend, the highlands of Gevaudan kept 
mounting in front of me against the sky. 
I had crossed the Loire the day before ; 



/ have a Goad 41 

now I was to cross the A liter ; so near are 
these two confluents in their youth. Just 
at the bridge of Langogne, as the long- 
promised rain was beginning to fall, a lassie 
of some seven or eight addressed me in 
the sacramental phrase, ' Uou y st que vous 
venezf She did it with so high an air 
that she set me laughing; and this cut her 
to the quick. She was evidently one who 
reckoned on respect, and stood looking 
after me in silent dudgeon, as I crossed 
the bridge and entered the county of 
Ge'vaudan, 



UPPER GEVAUDAN 



* The way also here was very weari- 
some through dirt and slabbi- 
ness ; nor was there on all this 
ground so much as one inn or 
victualling-house wherein to 
refresh the feebler sort. 1 

Pilgrim's Progress. 



upper g£vaudan 

A CAMP IN THE DARK 

HTHE next day (Tuesday, September 2\th)> 
it was two o'clock in the afternoon be- 
fore I got my journal written up and my 
knapsack repaired, for I was determined to 
carry my knapsack in the future and have 
no more ado with baskets ; and half an 
hour afterwards I set out for Le Cheylard 
VEv^que, a place on the borders of the for- 
est of Mercoire. A man, I was told, should 
walk there in an hour and a half ; and I 
thought it scarce too ambitious to suppose 
that a man encumbered with a donkey 
might cover the same distance in four 
hours. 

All the way up the long hill from Lan- 



46 Upper Gevaudan 

gogne it rained and hailed alternately ; the 
wind kept freshening steadily, although 
slowly ; plentiful hurrying clouds — some 
dragging veils of straight rain-shower, others 
massed and luminous as though promising 
snow — careered out of the north and fol- 
lowed me along my way. I was soon out 
of the cultivated basin of the A liter ^ and 
away from the ploughing oxen, and such- 
like sights of the country. Moor, heathery 
marsh, tracts of rock and pines, woods of 
birch all jewelled with the autumn yellow, 
here and there a few naked cottages and 
bleak fields, — these were the characters of 
the country. Hill and valley followed val- 
ley and hill ; the little green and stony 
cattle-tracks wandered in and out of one 
another, split into three or four, died away 
in marshy hollows, and began again sporad- 
ically on hillsides or at the borders of a 
wood. 

There was no direct road to Cheylard y 
and it was no easy affair to make a passage 
in this uneven country and through this 
intermittent labyrinth of tracks. It must 



A Camp in the Dark 47 

have been about four when I struck Sagne- 
rousse, and went on my way rejoicing in a 
sure point of departure. Two hours after- 
wards, the dusk rapidly falling, in a lull of 
the wind, I issued from a fir-wood where 
I had long been wandering, and found, not 
the looked-for village, but another marish 
bottom among rough-and-tumble hills. For 
some time past I had heard the ringing of 
cattle-bells ahead ; and now, as I came out 
of the skirts of the wood, I saw near upon 
a dozen cows and perhaps as many more 
black figures, which I conjectured to be 
children, although the mist had almost 
unrecognisably exaggerated their forms. 
These were all silently following each other 
round and round in a circle, now taking 
hands, now breaking up with chains and 
reverences. A dance of children appeals 
to very innocent and lively thoughts ; but, 
at nightfall on the marshes, the thing was 
eerie and fantastic to behold. Even I, who 
am well enough read in Herbert Spencer, 
felt a sort of silence fall for an instant on 
my mind. The next, I was pricking Mo- 



48 Upper Gevaudan 

destine forward, and guiding her like an un- 
ruly ship through the open. In a path, she 
went doggedly ahead of her own accord, as 
before a fair wind ; but once on the turf or 
among heather, and the brute became de- 
mented. The tendency of lost travellers 
to go round in a circle was developed in 
her to the degree of passion, and it took all 
the steering I had in me to keep even a 
decently straight course through a single 
field. 

While I was thus desperately tacking 
through the bog, children and cattle began 
to disperse, until only a pair of girls re- 
mained behind. From these I sought 
direction on my path. The peasantry in 
general were but little disposed to counsel 
a wayfarer. One old devil simply retired 
into his house, and barricaded the door on 
my approach ; and I might beat and shout 
myself hoarse, he turned a deaf ear. An- 
other, having given me a direction which, 
as I found afterwards, I had misunderstood, 
complacently watched me going wrong 
without adding a sign. He did not care 



A Camp in the Dark 49 

a stalk of parsley if I wandered all night 
upon the hills! As for these two girls, 
they were a pair of impudent sly sluts, 
with not a thought but mischief. One 
put out her tongue at me, the other 
bade me follow the cows ; and they both 
giggled and jogged each other's elbows. 
The Beast of Gtvaudan ate about a hun- 
dred children of this district ; I began to 
think of him with sympathy. 

Leaving the girls, I pushed on through 
the bog, and got into another wood and 
upon a well-marked road. It grew darker 
and darker. Modestine, suddenly begin- 
ning to smell mischief, bettered the pace 
of her own accord, and from that time 
forward gave me no trouble. It was the 
first sign of intelligence I had occasion to 
remark in her. At the same time, the 
wind freshened into half a gale, and another 
heavy discharge of rain came flying up 
out of the north. At the other side of 
the wood I sighted some red windows in 
the dusk. This was the hamlet of Fouzil- 

hic ; three houses on a hillside, near a 
4 



50 Upper Gevaudan 

wood of birches. Here I found a delight- 
ful old man, who came a little way with me 
in the rain to put me safely on the road for 
Cheylard. He would hear of no reward ; 
but shook his hands above his head almost 
as if in menace, and refused volubly and 
shrilly, in unmitigated patois. 

All seemed right at last. My thoughts 
began to turn upon dinner and a fireside, 
and my heart was agreeably softened in my 
bosom. Alas, and I was on the brink of 
new and greater miseries ! Suddenly, at a 
single swoop, the night fell. I have been 
abroad in many a black night, but never in 
a blacker. A glimmer of rocks, a glimmer 
of the track where it was well beaten, a 
certain fleecy density, or night within night, 
for a tree, — this was all that I could dis- 
criminate. The sky was simply darkness 
overhead ; even the flying clouds pursued 
their way invisibly to human eyesight. I 
could not distinguish my hand at arm's 
length from the track, nor my goad, at the 
same distance, from the meadows or the 
sky. 



A Camp in the Dark 5* 

Soon the road that I was following split, 
after the fashion of the country, into three 
or four in a piece of rocky meadow. Since 
Modestine had shown such a fancy for 
beaten roads, I tried her instinct in this 
predicament. But the instinct of an ass 
is what might be expected from the name ; 
in half a minute she was clambering round 
and round among some boulders, as lost 
a donkey as you would wish to see. I 
should have camped long before had I 
been properly provided ; but as this was 
to be so short a stage, I had brought no 
wine, no bread for myself and little over a 
pound for my lady-friend. Add to this, 
that I and Modestine were both hand- 
somely wetted by the showers. But now, 
if I could have found some water, I should 
have camped at once in spite of all. 
Water, however, being entirely absent, 
except in the form of rain, I determined 
to return to Fouzilhic, and ask a guide a 
little further on my way — ' a little farther 
lend thy guiding hand.' 

The thing was easy to decide, hard to 



52 Upper Gtvaudan 

accomplish. In this sensible roaring black, 
ness I was sure of nothing but the direc- 
tion of the wind. To this I set my face; 
the road had disappeared, and I went 
across country, now in marshy opens, now 
baffled by walls unscalable to Modestine, 
until I came once more in sight of some 
red windows. This time they were differ- 
ently disposed. It was not Fouzilhic, but 
Fouzilhac, a hamlet little distant from the 
other in space, but worlds away in the 
spirit of its inhabitants. I tied Modestine 
to a gate, and groped forward, stumbling 
among rocks, plunging mid-leg in bog, 
until I gained the entrance of the village. 
In the first lighted house there was a 
woman who would not open to me. She 
could do nothing, she cried to me through 
the door, being alone and lame ; but if I 
would apply at the next house, there was a 
man who could help me if he had a mind. 

They came to the next door in force, a 
man, two women, and a girl, and brought 
a pair of lanterns to examine the wayfarer. 
The man was not ill-looking, but had a 



A Camp in the Dark 53 

shifty smile. He leaned against the door- 
post, and heard me state my case. All I 
asked was a guide as far as Cheylard. 

* Cest que, voyez-vous, il fait noir, said 
he. 

I told him that was just my reason for 
requiring help. 

* I understand that/ said he, looking un- 
comfortable ; ' mats — cest — de la peine? 

I was willing to pay, I said. He shook 
his head. I rose as high as ten francs ; 
but he continued to shake his head. 
1 Name your own price, then,' said I. 

' Ce n'est pas ca* he said at length, and 
with evident difficulty ; * but I am not 
going to cross the door — maisje ne sortirai 
pas de la porte* 

I grew a little warm, and asked him 
what he proposed that I should do. 

1 Where are you going beyond Chey- 
lard? * he asked by way of answer. 

* That is no affair of yours,' I returned, 
for I was not going to indulge his bestial 
curiosity ; ' it changes nothing in my pres- 
ent predicament/ 



54 Upper Gevaitdan 

1 Cest vrai, ca, y he acknowledged, with a 
laugh ; ' out, cest vrai. Et d'ok venez 
vous ? * 

A better man than I might have felt 
nettled. 

1 O,' said I, * I am not going to answer 
any of your questions, so you may spare 
yourself the trouble of putting them. I 
am late enough already ; I want help. If 
you will not guide me yourself, at least 
help me to find some one else who will/ 

* Hold on,' he cried suddenly. ' Was it 
not you who passed in the meadow while 
it was still day ? ' 

'Yes, yes,' said the girl, whom I had not 
hitherto recognised ; ' it was monsieur ; I 
told him to follow the cow/ 

'As for you, mademoiselle,' said I, 'you 
are a farceuse* 

* And/ added the man, ' what the devil 
have you done to be still here?' 

What the devil, indeed ! But there I 
was. ' The great thing/ said I, ' is to make 
an end of it ; ' and once more proposed 
that he should help me to find a guide. 



A Camp in the Dark 55 

' Cest que,' he said again, ' cest que — it 
fait noir* 

* Very well/ said I ; l take one of your 
lanterns/ 

' No,' he cried, drawing a thought back- 
ward, and again intrenching himself behind 
one of his former phrases ; * I will not cross 
the door.' 

I looked at him. I saw unaffected ter- 
ror struggling on his face with unaffected 
shame ; he was smiling pitifully and wet- 
ting his lip with his tongue, like a de- 
tected schoolboy. I drew a brief picture 
of my state, and asked him what I was 
to do. 

' I don't know,' he said ; * I will not cross 
the door.' 

Here was the Beast of Gevaudan, and no 
mistake. 

' Sir/ said I, with my most commanding 
manners, 'you are a coward.' 

And with that I turned my back upon 
the family party, who hastened to retire 
within their fortifications ; and the famous 
door was closed again, but not till I had 



$6 Upper Gevaudan 

overheard the sound of laughter. Filia 
barbara pater barbarior. Let me say it in 
the plural : the Beasts of Gdvaudan. 

The lanterns had somewhat dazzled me, 
and I ploughed distressfully among stones 
and rubbish-heaps. All the other houses 
in the village were both dark and silent; 
and though I knocked at here and there 
a door, my knocking was unanswered. It 
was a bad business ; I gave up Fouzilhac 
with my curses. The rain had stopped, 
and the wind, which still kept rising, began 
to dry my coat and trousers. * Very well/ 
thought I, ' water or no water, I must 
camp.' But the first thing was to return 
to Modestine. I am pretty sure I was 
twenty minutes groping for my lady in the 
dark ; and if it had not been for the un- 
kindly services of the bog, into which I 
once more stumbled, I might have still 
been groping for her at the dawn. My 
next business was to gain the shelter of a 
wood, for the wind was cold as well as bois- 
terous. How, in this well-wooded district, 
I should have been so long in finding one, 



A Camp in the Dark 57 

is another of the insoluble mysteries of this 
day's adventures ; but I will take my oath 
that I put near an hour to the discovery. 
At last black trees began to show upon 
my left, and, suddenly crossing the road, 
made a cave of unmitigated blackness right 
in front. I call it a cave without exaggera- 
tion ; to pass below that arch of leaves was 
like entering a dungeon. I felt about until 
my hand encountered a stout branch, and 
to this I tied Modestine, a haggard, 
drenched, desponding donkey. Then I 
lowered my pack, laid it along the wall on 
the margin of the road, and unbuckled the 
straps. I knew well enough where the 
lantern was ; but where were the candles ? 
I groped and groped among the tumbled 
articles, and, while I was thus groping, sud- 
denly I touched the spirit-lamp. Salvation ! 
This would serve my turn as well. The 
wind roared unwearyingly among the trees ; 
I could hear the boughs tossing and the 
leaves churning through half a mile of for- 
est ; yet the scene of my encampment was 
not only as black as the pit, but admirably 



5 8 Upper Gevaudan 

sheltered. At the second match the wick 
caught flame. The light was both livid 
and shifting ; but it cut me off from the 
universe, and doubled the darkness of the 
surrounding night. 

I tied Modestine more conveniently for 
herself, and broke up half the black bread 
for her supper, reserving the other half 
against the morning. Then I gathered 
what I should want within reach, took off 
my wet boots and gaiters, which I wrapped 
in my waterproof, arranged my knapsack 
for a pillow under the flap of my sleeping- 
bag, insinuated my limbs into the interior, 
and buckled myself in like a bambino. I 
opened a tin of Bologna sausage and broke 
a cake of chocolate, and that was all I had 
to eat. It may sound offensive, but I ate 
them together, bite by bite, by way of bread 
and meat. All I had to wash down this 
revolting mixture was neat brandy: a re- 
volting beverage in itself. But I was rare 
and hungry ; ate well, and smoked one of 
the best cigarettes in my experience. Then 
I put a stone in my straw hat, pulled the 



A Camp in the Dark 59 

flap of my fur cap over my neck and eyes, 
put my revolver ready to my hand, and 
snuggled well down among the sheepskins. 
I questioned at first if I were sleepy, for 
I felt my heart beating faster than usual, 
as if with an agreeable excitement to which 
my mind remained a stranger. But as soon 
as my eyelids touched, that subtle glue 
leaped between them, and they would no 
more come separate. The wind among 
the trees was my lullaby. Sometimes it 
sounded for minutes together with a steady 
even rush, not rising nor abating ; and again 
it would swell and burst like a great crash- 
ing breaker, and the trees would patter me 
all over with big drops from the rain of the 
afternoon. Night after night, in my own 
bedroom in the country, I have given ear 
to this perturbing concert of the wind 
among the woods ; but whether it was a 
difference in the trees, or the lie of the 
ground, or because I was myself outside 
and in the midst of it, the fact remains that 
the wind sang to a different tune among 
these woods of Gtvaudan. I hearkened and 



60 Upper Gevaudan 

hearkened ; and meanwhile sleep took grad- 
ual possession of my body and subdued my 
thoughts and senses ; but still my last wak- 
ing effort was to listen and distinguish, and 
my last conscious state was one of wonder 
at the foreign clamour in my ears. 

Twice in the course of the dark hours 
— once when a stone galled me under- 
neath the sack, and again when the poor 
patient Modestine, growing angry, pawed 
and stamped upon the road — I was recalled 
for a brief while to consciousness, and saw 
a star or two overhead, and the lace-like 
edge of the foliage against the sky. When 
I awoke for the third time {Wednesday, 
September 2$th), the world was flooded 
with a blue light, the mother of the dawn. I 
saw the leaves labouring in the wind and the 
ribbon of the road; and, on turning my head, 
there was Modestine tied to a beech, and 
standing half across the path in an attitude 
of inimitable patience. I closed my eyes 
again, and set to thinking over the experi- 
ence of the night. I was surprised to find 
how easy and pleasant it had been, even in 



A Camp in the Dark 61 

this tempestuous weather. The stone which 
annoyed me would not have been there, had 
I not been forced to camp blindfold in the 
opaque night ; and I had felt no other incon- 
venience except when my feet encountered 
the lantern or the second volume of Peyrafs 
Pastors of the Desert among the mixed con- 
tents of my sleeping-bag ; nay more, I had 
felt not a touch of cold, and awakened with 
unusually lightsome and clear sensations. 

With that, I shook myself, got once 
more into my boots and gaiters, and break- 
ing up the rest of the bread for Modestine, 
strolled about to see in what part of the 
world I had awakened. Ulysses, left on 
Ithaca, and with a mind unsettled by the 
goddess, was not more pleasantly astray. 
I have been after an adventure all my life, 
a pure dispassionate adventure, such as 
befell early and heroic voyagers ; and thus 
to be found by morning in a random wood- 
side nook in Ge'vaudan — not knowing north 
from south, as strange to my surroundings 
as the first man upon the earth, an inland 
castaway — was to find a fraction of my 



62 Upper Gevaudan 

day-dreams realised. I was on the skirts 
of a little wood of birch, sprinkled with a 
few beeches ; behind, it adjoined another 
wood of fir ; and in front, it broke up and 
went down in open order into a shallow 
and meadowy dale. All around there were 
bare hill-tops, some near, some far away, 
as the perspective closed or opened, but 
none apparently much higher than the rest. 
The wind huddled the trees. The golden 
specks of autumn in the birches tossed 
shiveringly. Overhead the sky was full of 
strings and shreds of vapour, flying, vanish- 
ing, reappearing, and turning about an axis 
like tumblers, as the wind hounded them 
through heaven. It was wild weather and 
famishing cold. I ate some chocolate, swal- 
lowed a mouthful of brandy, and smoked a 
cigarette before the cold should have time 
to disable my fingers. And by the time I 
had got all this done, and had made my 
pack and bound it on the pack-saddle, the 
day was tiptoe on the threshold of the east. 
We had not gone many steps along the lane, 
before the sun, still invisible to me, sent a 



A Camp in the Dark 63 

glow of gold over some cloud mountains 
that lay ranged along the eastern sky. 

The wind had us on the stern, and hur- 
ried us bitingly forward. I buttoned my- 
self into my coat, and walked on in a pleas- 
ant frame of mind with all men, when 
suddenly, at a corner, there was Fouzilhic 
once more in front of me. Nor only that, 
but there was the old gentleman who had 
escorted me so far the night before, run- 
ning out of his house at sight of me, with 
hands upraised in horror. 

1 My poor boy ! ' he cried, * what does 
this mean ? * 

I told him what had happened. He beat 
his old hands like clappers in a mill, to 
think how lightly he had let me go ; but 
when he heard of the man of Fouzilhac, 
anger and depression seized upon his mind. 

* This time, at least,' said he, ' there 
shall be no mistake.' 

And he limped along, for he was very 
rheumatic, for about half a mile, and until 
I was almost within sight of Cheylard, the 
destination I had hunted for so long. 



CHEYLARD AND LUC 

/CANDIDLY, it seemed little worthy of 
all this searching. A few broken 
ends of village, with no particular street, 
but a succession of open places heaped with 
logs and fagots ; a couple of tilted crosses, 
a shrine to our Lady of all Graces on the 
summit of a little hill ; and all this, upon 
a rattling highland river, in the corner of a 
naked valley. What went ye out for to 
see ? thought I to myself. But the place 
had a life of its own. I found a board 
commemorating the liberalities of Cheylard 
for the past year, hung up, like a banner, in 
the diminutive and tottering church. In 
1877, it appeared, the inhabitants sub- 
scribed forty-eight francs ten centimes for 
the * Work of the Propagation of the Faith/ 
Some of this, I could not help hoping, 
would be applied to my native land. Chey- 



Cheylard and Luc 65 

lard scrapes together halfpence for the 
darkened souls in Edinburgh; while Bal- 
quidder and Dunrossness bemoan the igno- 
rance of Rome. Thus, to the high enter- 
tainment of the angels, do we pelt each 
other with evangelists, like schoolboys bick- 
ering in the snow. 

The inn was again singularly unpreten- 
tious. The whole furniture of a not ill-to- 
do family was in the kitchen : the beds, 
the cradle, the clothes, the plate-rack, the 
meal-chest, and the photograph of the par- 
ish priest. There were five children, one 
of whom was set to its morning prayers 
at the stair-foot soon after my arrival, and 
a sixth would erelong be forthcoming. I 
was kindly received by these good folk. 
They were much interested in my misad- 
venture. The wood in which I had slept 
belonged to them ; the man of Fouzilhac 
they thought a monster of iniquity, and 
counselled me warmly to summon him at 
law — 'because I might have died.' The 
good wife was horror-stricken to see me 

drink over a pint of uncreamed milk. 
5 



66 Upper Gevaudan 

1 You will do yourself an evil,* she said. 
* Permit me to boil it for you.' 

After I had begun the morning on this 
delightful liquor, she having an infinity of 
things to arrange, I was permitted, nay 
requested, to make a bowl of chocolate for 
myself. My boots and gaiters were hung 
up to dry, and, seeing me trying to write 
my journal on my knee, the eldest daugh- 
ter let down a hinged table in the chimney- 
corner for my convenience. Here I wrote, 
drank my chocolate, and finally ate an ome- 
lette before I left. The table was thick 
with dust ; for, as they explained, it was 
not used except in winter weather. I had 
a clear look up the vent, through brown 
agglomerations of soot and blue vapour, to 
the sky ; and whenever a handful of twigs 
was thrown on to the fire, my legs were 
scorched by the blaze. 

The husband had begun life as a mule- 
teer, and when I came to charge Modestine 
showed himself full of the prudence of his 
art. 'You will have to change this pack- 
age,' said he ; 'it ought to be in two parts, 



Cheylard and Luc 67 

and then you might have double the 
weight/ 

I explained that I wanted no more 
weight ; and for no donkey hitherto created 
would I cut my sleeping-bag in two. 

1 It fatigues her, however,' said the inn- 
keeper ; ' it fatigues her greatly on the 
march. Look.' 

Alas, there were her two forelegs no 
better than raw beef on the inside, and 
blood was running from under her tail. 
They told me when I left, and I was ready 
to believe it, that before a few days I 
should come to love Modestine like a dog. 
Three days had passed, we had shared 
some misadventures, and my heart was 
still as cold as a potato towards my beast 
of burden. She was pretty enough to look 
at ; but then she had given proof of dead 
stupidity, redeemed indeed by patience, 
but aggravated by flashes of sorry and ill- 
judged light-heartedness. And I own this 
new discovery seemed another point against 
her. What the devil was the good of a 
she-ass if she could not carry a sleeping- 



68 Upper Gevaudan 

bag and a few necessaries ? I saw the end 
of the fable rapidly approaching, when I 
should have to carry Modestine. JEsop was 
the man to know the world ! I assure 
you I set out with heavy thoughts upon 
my short day's march. 

It was not only heavy thoughts about 
Modestine that weighted me upon the 
way ; it was a leaden business altogether. 
For first, the wind blew so rudely that I 
had to hold on the pack with one hand 
from Cheylard to Luc ; and second, my 
road lay through one of the most beggarly 
countries in the world. It was like the 
worst of the Scotch Highlands, only worse ; 
cold, naked, and ignoble, scant of wood, 
scant of heather, scant of life. A road and 
some fences broke the unvarying waste, 
and the line of the road was marked by 
upright pillars, to serve in time of snow. 

Why any one should desire to visit either 
Luc or Cheylard is more than my much- 
inventing spirit can suppose. For my 
part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. 
I travel for travel's sake. The great affair 



Cheylard and Luc 69 

is to move ; to feel the needs and hitches 
of our life more nearly ; to come down off 
this feather-bed of civilisation, and find 
the globe granite underfoot and strewn 
with cutting flints. Alas, as we get up in 
life, and are more preoccupied with our 
affairs, even a holiday is a thing that must 
be worked for. To hold a pack upon a 
pack-saddle against a gale out of the freez- 
ing north is no high industry, but it is one 
that serves to occupy and compose the 
mind. And when the present is so exact- 
ing, who can annoy himself about the 
future ? 

I came out at length above the A liter. 
A more unsightly prospect at this season of 
the year it would be hard to fancy. Shelv- 
ing hills rose round it on all sides, here 
dabbled with wood and fields, there rising 
to peaks alternately naked and hairy with 
pines. The colour throughout was black or 
ashen, and came to a point in the ruins of 
the castle of Luc, which pricked up impu- 
dently from below my feet, carrying on a 
pinnacle a tall white statue of Our Lady, 



70 Upper Gevaudan 

which, I heard with interest, weighed fifty- 
quintals, and was to be dedicated on the 
6th of October. Through this sorry land- 
scape trickled the A liter and a tributary of 
nearly equal size, which came down to join 
it through a broad nude valley in Vivarais. 
The weather had somewhat lightened, 
and the clouds massed in squadron ; but 
the fierce wind still hunted them through 
heaven, and cast great ungainly splashes of 
shadow and sunlight over the scene. 

Luc itself was a straggling double file of 
houses wedged between hill and river. It 
had no beauty, nor was there any notable 
feature, save the old castle overhead with 
its fifty quintals of brand-new Madonna. 
But the inn was clean and large. The 
kitchen, with its two box-beds hung with 
clean check curtains, with its wide stone 
chimney, its chimney-shelf four yards long 
and garnished with lanterns and religious 
statuettes, its array of chests and pair of 
ticking clocks, was the very model of what 
a kitchen ought to be ; a melodrama kitch- 
en, suitable for bandits or noblemen in dis- 



C hey lard and Luc 71 

guise. Nor was the scene disgraced by the 
landlady, a handsome, silent, dark old 
woman, clothed and hooded in black like 
a nun. Even the public bedroom had a 
character of its own, with the long deal 
tables and benches, where fifty might have 
dined, set out as for a harvest-home, and 
the three box-beds along the wall. In one 
of these, lying on straw and covered with a 
pair of table-napkins, did I do penance all 
night long in goose-flesh and chattering 
teeth, and sigh from time to time as I 
awakened for my sheepskin sack and the 
lee of some great wood. 






OUR LADY OF THE SNOWS 



* 1 behold 
The House, the Brotherhood austere-^ 
And what am /, that I am here ? ' 
Matthew Arnold. 



OUR LADY OF THE SNOWS 



FATHER APOLLINARIS 

jVJEXT morning {Thursday, 26th Septem- 
ber) I took the road in a new order. 
The sack was no longer doubled, but hung 
at full length across the saddle, a green 
sausage six feet long with a tuft of blue 
wool hanging out of either end. It was 
more picturesque, it spared the donkey, 
and, as I began to see, it would insure 
stability, blow high, blow low. But it was 
not without a pang that I had so decided. 
For although I had purchased a new cord, 
and made all as fast as I was able, I was 
yet jealously uneasy lest the flaps should 



76 Out- Lady of the Snows 

tumble out and scatter my effects along 
the line of march. 

My way lay up the bald valley of the 
river, along the march of Vivarais and 
Ge'vaudan. The hills of Ge'vaudan on the 
right were a little more naked, if anything, 
than those of Vivarais upon the left, and 
the former had a monopoly of a low dotty 
underwood that grew thickly in the gorges 
and died out in solitary burrs upon the 
shoulders and the summits. Black bricks 
of fir-wood were plastered here and there 
upon both sides, and here and there were 
cultivated fields. A railway ran beside the 
river ; the only bit of railway in Gevaudan, 
although there are many proposals afoot 
and surveys being made, and even, as they 
tell me, a station standing ready built in 
Mende. A year or two hence and this 
may be another world. The desert is be- 
leaguered. Now may some Languedocian 
Wordsworth turn the sonnet into patois : 
' Mountains and vales and floods, heard YE 
that whistle ? ' 

At a place called La Bastide I was 



Father Apollinaris 77 

directed to leave the river, and follow a road 
that mounted on the left among the hills 
of Vivarais, the modern Ardeche; for I was 
now come within a little way of my strange 
destination, the Trappist monastery of our 
Lady of the Snows. The sun came out as 
I left the shelter of a pine-wood, and I be- 
held suddenly a fine wild landscape to the 
south. High rocky hills, as blue as sap- 
phire, closed the view, and between these 
lay ridge upon ridge, heathery, craggy, the 
sun glittering on veins of rock, the under- 
wood clambering in the hollows, as rude as 
God made them at the first. There was 
not a sign of man's hand in all the pros- 
pect ; and indeed not a trace of his passage, 
save where generation after generation had 
walked in twisted footpaths, in and out 
among the beeches, and up and down upon 
the channelled slopes. The mists, which 
had hitherto beset me, were now broken 
into clouds, and fled swiftly and shone 
brightly in the sun. I drew a long breath. 
It was grateful to come, after so long, upon 
a scene of some attraction for the human. 



7% Our Lady of the Snows 

heart. I own I like definite form in what 
my eyes are to rest upon ; and if landscapes 
were sold, like the sheets of characters of 
my boyhood, one penny plain and twopence 
coloured, I should go the length of two- 
pence every day of my life. 

But if things had grown better to the 
south, it was still desolate and inclement 
near at hand. A spidery cross on every 
hill-top marked the neighbourhood of a 
religious house ; and a quarter of a mile 
beyond, the outlook southward opening 
out and growing bolder with every step, a 
white statue of the Virgin at the corner of 
a young plantation directed the traveller to 
our Lady of the Snows. Here, then, I struck 
leftward, and pursued my way, driving my 
secular donkey before me, and creaking in 
my secular boots and gaiters, towards the 
asylum of silence. 

I had not gone very far ere the wind 
brought to me the clanging of a bell, and 
somehow, I can scarce tell why, my heart 
sank within me at the sound. I have 
rarely approached anything with more un- 



Father Apollinaris 79 

affected terror than the monastery of our 
Lady of the Snows. This it is to have had 
a Protestant education. And suddenly, on 
turning a corner, fear took hold on me 
from head to foot — slavish superstitious 
fear; and though I did not stop in my 
advance, yet I went on slowly, like a man 
who should have passed a bourne unno- 
ticed, and strayed into the country of the 
dead. For there upon the narrow new- 
made road, between the stripling pines, was 
a mediaeval friar, fighting with a barrowful 
of turfs. Every Sunday of my childhood 
I used to study the Hermits of Marco 
Sadeler — enchanting prints, full of wood 
and field and mediaeval landscapes, as 
large as a county, for the imagination to 
go a travelling in ; and here, sure enough, 
was one of Marco Sadeler s heroes. He 
was robed in white like any spectre, and 
the hood falling back, in the instancy of his 
contention with the barrow, disclosed a 
pate as bald and yellow as a skull. He 
might have been buried any time these 
thousand years, and all the lively parts of 



80 Our Lady of the Snows 

him resolved into earth and broken up 
with the farmer's harrow. 

I was troubled besides in my mind as to 
etiquette. Durst I address a person who 
was under a vow of silence ? Clearly not. 
But drawing near, I doffed my cap to him 
with a far-away superstitious reverence. 
He nodded back, and cheerfully addressed 
me. Was I going to the monastery ? 
Who was I ? An Englishman ? Ah, an 
Irishman, then ? 

* No,' I said, 'a Scotsman.' 

A Scotsman ? Ah, he had never seen a 
Scotsman before. And he looked me all 
over, his good, honest, brawny countenance 
shining with interest, as a boy might look 
upon a lion or an alligator. From him I 
learned with disgust that I could not be 
received at our Lady of the Snows ; I 
might get a meal, perhaps, but that was 
all. And then, as our talk ran on, and it 
turned out that I was not a pedlar, but a 
literary man, who drew landscapes and was 
going to write a book, he changed his 
manner of thinking as to my reception (for 



Father Apollinaris 81 

I fear they respect persons even in a Trap- 
pist monastery), and told me I must be sure 
to ask for the Father Prior, and state my 
case to him in full. On second thoughts he 
determined to go down with me himself; 
he thought he could manage for me better. 
Might he say that I was a geographer ? 

No ; I thought, in the interests of truth, 
he positively might not. 

* Very well, then ' (with disappointment), 
'an author.' 

It appeared he had been in a seminary 
with six young Irishmen, all priests long 
since, who had received newspapers and 
kept him informed of the state of ecclesias- 
tical affairs in England. And he asked me 
eagerly after Dr. Pusey, for whose conver- 
sion the good man had continued ever 
since to pray night and morning. 

1 1 thought he was very near the truth,' 
he said ; ' and he will reach it yet ; there is 
so much virtue in prayer.' 

He must be a stiff ungodly Protestant 
who can take anything but pleasure in this 
kind and hopeful story. While he was 



82 Our Lady of the Snows 

thus near the subject, the good father 
asked me if I were a Christian ; and when 
he found I was not, or not after his way, he 
glossed it over with great good-will. 

The road which we were following, and 
which this stalwart father had made with 
his own two hands within the space of a 
year, came to a corner, and showed us some 
white buildings a little further on beyond 
the wood. At the same time, the bell once 
more sounded abroad. We were hard upon 
the monastery. Father Apollinaris (for that 
was my companion's name) stopped me. 

' I must not speak to you down there,' he 
said. ' Ask for the Brother Porter, and all 
will be well. But try to see me as you go 
out again through the wood, where I may 
speak to you. I am charmed to have made 
your acquaintance.' 

And then suddenly raising his arms, flap- 
ping his fingers, and crying out twice, ' I 
must not speak, I must not speak ! ' he ran 
away in front of me and disappeared into 
the monastery-door. 

I own this somewhat ghastly eccentricity 



Father Apollinaris 83 

went a good way to revive my terrors. 
But where one was so good and simple, 
why should not all be alike ? I took heart 
of grace, and went forward to the gate as 
fast as Modestine, who seemed to have a 
disaffection for monasteries, would permit. 
It was the first door, in my acquaintance of 
her, which she had not shown an indecent 
haste to enter. I summoned the place in 
form, though with a quaking heart. Father 
Michael, the Father Hospitaller, and a pair 
of brown-robed brothers came to the gate 
and spoke with me awhile. I think my 
sack was the great attraction ; it had al- 
ready beguiled the heart of poor Apolli- 
naris, who had charged me on my life to 
show it to the Father Prior. But whether 
it was my address, or the sack, or the idea 
speedily published among that part of the 
brotherhood who attend on strangers that 
I was not a pedlar after all, I found no 
difficulty as to my reception. Modestine 
was led away by a layman to the stables, 
and I and my pack were received into our 
Lady of the Snows. 



THE MONKS 

CATHER MICHAEL, a pleasant, fresh- 
faced, smiling man, perhaps of thirty 
five, took me to the pantry, and gave me a 
glass of liqueur to stay me until dinner. 
We had some talk, or rather I should say he 
listened to my prattle indulgently enough, 
but with an abstracted air, like a spirit 
with a thing of clay. And truly when I 
remember that I descanted principally on 
my appetite, and that it must have been 
by that time more than eighteen hours 
since Father Michael had so much as 
broken bread, I can well understand that 
he would find an earthly savour in my 
conversation. But his manner, though su- 
perior, was exquisitely gracious ; and I find 
I have a lurking curiosity as to Father 
Michaels past. 

The whet administered, I was left alone 
for a little in the monastery garden. This 



The Monks 85 

is no more than the main court, laid out 
in sandy paths and beds of particoloured 
dahlias, and with a fountain and a black 
statue of the Virgin in the centre. The 
buildings stand around it four-square, 
bleak, as yet unseasoned by the years and 
weather, and with no other features than a 
belfry and a pair of slated gables. Brothers 
in white, brothers in brown, passed silently 
along the sanded alleys ; and when I first 
came out, three hooded monks were kneel- 
ing on the terrace at their prayers. A 
naked hill commands the monastery upon 
one side, and the wood commands it on 
the other. It lies exposed to wind ; the 
snow falls off and on from October to May, 
and sometimes lies six weeks on end ; but 
if they stood in Eden, with a climate like 
heaven's, the buildings themselves would 
offer the same wintry and cheerless aspect ; 
and for my part, on this wild September 
day, before I was called to dinner, I felt 
chilly in and out. 

When I had eaten well and heartily, 
Brother Ambrose, a hearty conversible 



86 Our Lady of the Snows 

Frenchman (for all those who wait on 
strangers have the liberty to speak), led me 
to a little room in that part of the building 
which is set apart for MM. les retraitants. 
It was clean and whitewashed, and fur- 
nished with strict necessaries, a crucifix, 
a bust of the late Pope, the Imitation in 
French, a book of religious meditations, and 
the life of Elizabeth Seton, evangelist, it 
would appear, of North America and of 
New England in particular. As far as my 
experience goes, there is a fair field for 
some more evangelisation in these quar- 
ters ; but think of Cotton Mather / I should 
like to give him a reading of this little work 
in heaven, where I hope he dwells ; but 
perhaps he knows all that already, and 
much more ; and perhaps he and Mrs. Seton 
are the dearest friends, and gladly unite 
their voices in the everlasting psalm. Over 
the table, to conclude the inventory of the 
room, hung a set of regulations for MM. les 
retraitants : what services they should at- 
tend, when they were to tell their beads or 
meditate, and when they were to rise and go 



The Monks 87 

to rest. At the foot was a notable N.B. : 
1 Le temps libre est employe' a Vexamen de 
conscience, a la confession, a faire de bonnes 
resolutions, &c.' To make good resolutions, 
indeed! You might talk as fruitfully of 
making the hair grow on your head. 

I had scarce explored my niche when 
Brother Ambrose returned. An English 
boarder, it appeared, would like to speak 
with me. I professed my willingness, and 
the friar ushered in a fresh, young, little 
Irishman of fifty, a deacon of the Church, 
arrayed in strict canonicals, and wearing on 
his head what, in default of knowledge, I 
can only call the ecclesiastical shako. He 
had lived seven years in retreat at a convent 
of nuns in Belgium, and now five at our 
Lady of the Snows; he never saw an English 
newspaper ; he spoke French imperfectly, 
and had he spoken it like a native, there was 
not much chance of conversation where he 
dwelt. With this, he was a man eminently 
sociable, greedy of news, and simple-minded 
like a child. If I was pleased to have a 
guide about the monastery, he was no less 



88 Our Lady of the Snows 

delighted to see an English face and hear 
an English tongue. 

He showed me his own room, where he 
passed his time among breviaries, Hebrew 
bibles, and the Waverley novels. Thence 
he led me to the cloisters, into the chapter- 
house, through the vestry, where the 
brothers' gowns and broad straw hats were 
hanging up, each with his religious name 
upon a board, — names full of legendary 
suavity and interest, such as Basil, Hila- 
rion, Raphael, or Pacifique ; into the library, 
where were all the works of Veuillot and 
Chateaubriand, and the Odes et Ballades, 
if you please, and even Moliere, to say 
nothing of innumerable fathers and a great 
variety of local and general historians. 
Thence my good Irishman took me round 
the workshops, where brothers bake bread, 
and make cartwheels, and take photo- 
graphs ; where one superintends a collec- 
tion of curiosities, and another a gallery 
of rabbits. For in a Trappist monastery 
each monk has an occupation of his own 
choice, apart from his religious duties and 



The Monks 89 

the general labours of the house. Each 
must sing in the choir, if he has a voice 
and ear, and join in the haymaking if he 
has a hand to stir ; but in his private hours, 
although he must be occupied, he may be 
occupied on what he likes. Thus I was 
told that one brother was engaged with 
literature ; while Father Apollinaris busies 
himself in making roads, and the Abbot 
employs himself in binding books. It is 
not so long since this Abbot was conse- 
crated, by the way ; and on that occasion, 
by a special grace, his mother was per- 
mitted to enter the chapel and witness 
the ceremony of consecration. A proud 
day for her to have a son a mitred abbot ; 
it makes you glad to think they let her in. 

In all these journeyings to and fro, many 
silent fathers and brethren fell in our way. 
Usually they paid no more regard to our 
passage than if we had been a cloud ; but 
sometimes the good deacon had a permis- 
sion to ask of them, and it was granted by 
a peculiar movement of the hands, almost 
like that of a dog's paws in swimming, or 



90 Our Lady of the Snows 

refused by the usual negative signs, and in 
either case with lowered eyelids and a cer- 
tain air of contrition, as of a man who was 
steering very close to evil. 

The monks, by special grace of their 
Abbot, were still taking two meals a day ; 
but it was already time for their grand fast, 
which begins somewhere in September and 
lasts till Easter, and during which they eat 
but once in the twenty-four hours, and that 
at two in the afternoon, twelve hours after 
they have begun the toil and vigil of the 
day. Their meals are scanty, but even of 
these they eat sparingly ; and though each 
is allowed a small carafe of wine, many 
refrain from this indulgence. Without 
doubt, the most of mankind grossly overeat 
themselves ; our meals serve not only for 
support, but as a hearty and natural diver- 
sion from the labour of life. Yet, though 
excess may be hurtful, I should have 
thought this Trappist regimen defective. 
And I am astonished, as I look back, at the 
freshness of face and cheerfulness of man- 
ner of all whom I beheld. A happier nof 



The Monks 9 l 

a healthier company I should scarce sup. 
pose that I have ever seen. As a matter 
of fact, on this bleak upland, and with the 
incessant occupation of the monks, life is 
of an uncertain tenure, and death no in- 
frequent visitor, at our Lady of the Snows, 
This, at least, was what was told me. But 
if they die easily, they must live healthily 
in the mean time, for they seemed all firm 
of flesh and high in colour ; and the only 
morbid sign that I could observe, an un- 
usual brilliancy of eye, was one that served 
rather to increase the general impression of 
vivacity and strength. 

Those with whom I spoke were singu- 
larly sweet tempered, with what I can only 
call a holy cheerfulness in air and conver- 
sation. There is a note, in the direction 
to visitors, telling them not to be offended 
at the curt speech of those who wait upon 
them, since it is proper to monks to speak 
little. The note might have been spared ; 
to a man the hospitallers were all brimming 
with innocent talk, and, in my experience 
of the monastery, it was easier to begin 



9 2 Our Lady of the Snows 

than to break off a conversation. With 
the exception of Father Michael, who was 
a man of the world, they showed them- 
selves full of kind and healthy interest in all 
sorts of subjects — in politics, in voyages, in 
my sleeping-sack — and not without a certain 
pleasure in the sound of their own voices. 

As for those who are restricted to silence, 
I can only wonder how they bear their 
solemn and cheerless isolation. And yet, 
apart from any view of mortification, I can 
see a certain policy, not only in the exclu- 
sion of women, but in this vow of silence. 
I have had some experience of lay phalan- 
steries, of an artistic, not to say a baccha- 
nalian, character ; and seen more than one 
association easily formed and yet more 
easily dispersed. With a Cistercian rule, 
perhaps they might have lasted longer. In 
the neighbourhood of women it is but a 
touch-and-go association that can be formed 
among defenceless men ; the stronger elec- 
tricity is sure to triumph ; the dreams of 
boyhood, the schemes of youth, are aban- 
doned after an interview of ten minutes, 



The Monks 93 

and the arts and sciences, and professional 
male jollity, deserted at once for two sweet 
eyes and a caressing accent. And next 
after this, the tongue is the great divider. 
I am almost ashamed to pursue this 
worldly criticism of a religious rule; but 
there is yet another point in which the 
Trappist order appeals to me as a model of 
wisdom. By two in the morning the clap- 
per goes upon the bell, and so on, hour by 
hour, and sometimes quarter by quarter, 
till eight, the hour of rest ; so infinitesi- 
mally is the day divided among different 
occupations. The man who keeps rabbits, 
for example, hurries from his hutches to the 
chapel, the chapter-room, or the refectory, 
all day long : every hour he has an office to 
sing, a duty to perform ; from two, when he 
rises in the dark, till eight, when he returns 
to receive the comfortable gift of sleep, he 
is upon his feet and occupied with manifold 
and changing business. I know many 
persons, worth several thousands in the 
year, who are not so fortunate in the dis- 
posal of their lives. Into how many houses 



94 Our Lady of the Snows 

would not the note of the monastery-bell, 
dividing the day into manageable portions, 
bring peace of mind and healthful activity 
of body ! We speak of hardships, but the 
true hardship is to be a dull fool, and per- 
mitted to mismanage life in our own dull 
and foolish manner. 

From this point of view, we may perhaps 
better understand the monk's existence. A 
long novitiate and every proof of constancy 
of mind and strength of body is required 
before admission to the order ; but I could 
not find that many were discouraged. In 
the photographer's studio, which figures so 
strangely among the outbuildings, my eye 
was attracted by the portrait of a young 
fellow in the uniform of a private of foot. 
This was one of the novices, who came of 
the age for service, and marched and drilled 
and mounted guard for the proper time 
among the garrison of Algiers. Here was 
a man who had surely seen both sides of 
life before deciding ; yet as soon as he was 
set free from service he returned to finish 
his novitiate. 



The Monks 95 

This austere rule entitles a man to 
heaven as by right. When the Trappist 
sickens, he quits not his habit ; he lies in 
the bed of death as he has prayed and 
laboured in his frugal and silent existence ; 
and when the Liberator comes, at the very 
moment, even before they have carried 
him in his robe to lie his little last in the 
chapel among continual chantings, joy-bells 
break forth, as if for a marriage, from the 
slated belfry, and proclaim throughout the 
neighbourhood that another soul has gone 
to God. 

At night, under the conduct of my kind 
Irishman, I took my place in the gallery 
to hear compline and Salve Regina, with 
which the Cistercians bring every day to a 
conclusion. There were none of those 
circumstances which strike the Protestant 
as childish or as tawdry in the public offices 
of Rome. A stern simplicity, heightened 
by the romance of the surroundings, spoke 
directly to the heart. I recall the white- 
washed chapel, the hooded figures in the 
choir, the lights alternately occluded and 



g6 Our Lady of the Snows 

revealed, the strong manly singing, the 
silence that ensued, the sight of cowled 
heads bowed in prayer, and then the clear 
trenchant beating of the bell, breaking in 
to show that the last office was over and 
the hour of sleep had come ; and when I 
remember, I am not surprised that I made 
my escape into the court with somewhat 
whirling fancies, and stood like a man 
bewildered in the windy starry night. 

But I was weary ; and when I had 
quieted my spirits with Elizabeth Setoris 
memoirs — a dull work — the cold and the 
raving of the wind among the pines — for 
my room was on that side of the monas- 
tery which adjoins the woods — disposed me 
readily to slumber. I was wakened at 
black midnight, as it seemed, though it 
was really two in the morning, by the first 
stroke upon the bell. All the brothers 
were then hurrying to the chapel ; the 
dead in life, at this untimely hour, were 
already beginning the uncomforted labours 
of their day. The dead in life — there was 
a chill reflection. And the words of a 



The Monks 97 

French song came back into my memory, 
telling of the best of our mixed existence. 

'Que t'as de belles filles, 

Girofle" ! 

Girofla! . 
Que t'as de belles filles, 
L* Amour les compter a ! ' 

And I blessed God that I was free to 
wander, free to hope, and free to love. 



THE BOARDERS 

DUT there was another side to my resi- 
dence at our Lady of the Snows. At 
this late season there were not many board- 
ers ; and yet I was not alone in the public 
part of the monastery. This itself is hard 
by the gate, with a small dining-room on 
the ground-floor, and a whole corridor of 
cells similar to mine up-stairs. I have 
stupidly forgotten the board for a regular 
retraitant ; but it was somewhere between 
three and five francs a day, and I think 
most probably the first. Chance visitors 
like myself might give what they chose 
as a free-will offering, but nothing was de- 
manded. I may mention that when I was 
going away, Father Michael refused twenty 
francs as excessive. I explained the rea- 
soning which led me to offer him so much ; 
but even then, from a curious point of hon- 
our, he would not accept it with his own 



The Boarders 99 

hand. ' I have no right to refuse for the 
monastery/ he explained, 'but I should 
prefer if you would give it to one of the 
brothers.' 

I had dined alone, because I arrived late ; 
but at supper I found two other guests. 
One was a country parish priest, who had 
walked over that morning from the seat of 
his cure near Mende to enjoy four days 
of solitude and prayer. He was a grena- 
dier in person, with the hale colour and 
circular wrinkles of a peasant ; and as he 
complained much of how he had been 
impeded by his skirts upon the march, I 
have a vivid fancy portrait of him, striding 
along, upright, big-boned, with kilted cas- 
sock, through the bleak hills of Gdvaudan. 
The other was a short, grizzling, thick-set 
man, from forty-five to fifty, dressed in 
tweed with a knitted spencer, and the red 
ribbon of a decoration in his buttonhole. 
This last was a hard person to classify. 
He was an old soldier, who had seen 
service and risen to the rank of comman- 
dant ; and he retained some of the brisk 

'LcfC. 



ioo Our Lady of the Snows 

decisive manners of the camp. On the 
other hand, as soon as his resignation was 
accepted, he had come to our Lady of the 
Snows as a boarder, and, after a brief experi- 
ence of its ways, had decided to remain as 
a novice. Already the new life was begin- 
ning to modify his appearance ; already 
he had acquired somewhat of the quiet 
and smiling air of the brethren ; and he 
was as yet neither an officer nor a Trap- 
pist, but partook of the character of each. 
And certainly here was a man in an inter- 
esting nick of life. Out of the noise of 
cannon and trumpets, he was in the act 
of passing into this still country bordering 
on the grave, where men sleep nightly in 
their grave-clothes, and, like phantoms, 
communicate by signs. 

At supper we talked politics. I make it 
my business, when I am in France, to 
preach political good-will and moderation, 
and to dwell on the example of Poland, 
much as some alarmists in England dwell 
on the example of Carthage. The priest 
and the Commandant assured me of their 



The Boarders 101 

sympathy with all I said, and made a 
heavy sighing over the bitterness of con- 
temporary feeling. 

1 Why, you cannot say anything to a man 
with which he does not absolutely agree/ 
said I, ' but he flies up at you in a temper.' 

They both declared that such a state of 
things was antichristian. 

While we were thus agreeing, what 
should my tongue stumble upon but a 
word in praise of Gambetta s moderation. 
The old soldier's countenance was instantly 
suffused with blood ; with the palms of his 
hands he beat the table like a naughty 
child. 

* Comment, monsieur? ' he shouted. ' Com- 
ment ? Gambetta moderate ? Will you 
dare to justify these words ? ' 

But the priest had not forgotten the tenor 
of our talk. And suddenly, in the height 
of his fury, the old soldier found a warning 
look directed on his face ; the absurdity of 
his behaviour was brought home to him in 
a flash ; and the storm came to an abrupt 
end, without another word. 



102 Our Lady of the Snows 

It was only in the morning, over our 
coffee {Friday, September 27th), that this 
couple found out I was a heretic. I sup- 
pose I had misled them by some admiring 
expressions as to the monastic life around 
us ; and it was only by a point-blank ques- 
tion that the truth came out. I had been 
tolerantly used both by simple Father Apol- 
linaris and astute Father Michael ; and the 
good Irish deacon, when he heard of my 
religious weakness, had only patted me 
upon the shoulder and said, ' You must be 
a Catholic and come to heaven.' But I 
was now among a different sect of orthodox. 
These two men were bitter and upright and 
narrow, like the worst of Scotsmen, and 
indeed, upon my heart, I fancy they were 
worse. The priest snorted aloud like a 
battle-horse. 

' Et vons pre'tendez mourir dans cette espece 
de croyance ? ' he demanded ; and there is 
no type used by mortal printers large 
enough to qualify his accent. 

I humbly indicated that I had no design 
of changing. 



The Boarders 103 

But he could not away with such a 
monstrous attitude. l No, no,' he cried ; 
'you must change. You have come here, 
God has led you here, and you must em- 
brace the opportunity/ 

I made a slip in policy ; I appealed to 
the family affections, though I was speak- 
ing to a priest and a soldier, two classes of 
men circumstantially divorced from the 
kind and homely ties of life. 

'Your father and mother?' cried the 
priest. ' Very well ; you will convert them 
in their turn when you go home/ 

I think I see my father's face ! I would 
rather tackle the Gaetulian lion in his den 
than embark on such an enterprise against 
the family theologian. 

But now the hunt was up ; priest and 
soldier were in full cry for my conversion ; 
and the Work of the Propagation of the 
Faith, for which the people of Cheylard 
subscribed forty-eight francs ten centimes 
during 1877, was being gallantly pursued 
against myself. It was an odd but most 
effective proselytising. They never sought 



104 Our Lady of the Snows 

to convince me in argument, where I might 
have attempted some defence ; but took it 
for granted that I was both ashamed and 
terrified at my position, and urged me 
solely on the point of time. Now, they 
said, when God had led me to our Lady of 
the Snows, now was the appointed hour. 

1 Do not be withheld by false shame,' 
observed the priest, for my encouragement. 

For one who feels very similarly to all 
sects of religion, and who has never been 
able, even for a moment, to weigh seriously 
the merit of this or that creed on the eter- 
nal side of things, however much he may 
see to praise or blame upon the secular and 
temporal side, the situation thus created 
was both unfair and painful. I committed 
my second fault in tact, and tried to plead 
that it was all the same thing in the end, 
and we were all drawing near by different 
sides to the same kind and undiscriminat- 
ing Friend and Father. That, as it seems 
to lay-spirits, would be the only gospel 
worthy of the name. But different men 
think differently ; and this revolutionary 



The Boarders 105 

aspiration brought down the priest with all 
the terrors of the law. He launched into 
harrowing details of hell. The damned, 
he said — on the authority of a little book 
which he had read not a week before, and 
which, to add conviction to conviction, he 
had fully intended to bring along with him 
in his pocket — were to occupy the same 
attitude through all eternity in the midst 
of dismal tortures. And as he thus expa- 
tiated, he grew in nobility of aspect with 
his enthusiasm. 

As a result the pair concluded that I 
should seek out the Prior, since the Abbot 
was from home, and lay my case immedi- 
ately before him. 

' Cest mon conseil comme ancien militaire* 
observed the Commandant ; ' et celui de 
monsieur comme pretre* 

' Out,* added the cure", sententiously nod- 
ding ; ' comme ancien militaire — et comme 
pritre* 

At this moment, whilst I was somewhat 
embarrassed how to answer, in came one of 
the monks, a little brown fellow, as lively 



106 Our Lady of the Snows 

as a grig, and with an Italian accent, who 
threw himself at once into the contention, 
but in a milder and more persuasive vein, 
as befitted one of these pleasant brethren. 
Look at hint, he said. The rule was very- 
hard ; he would have dearly liked to stay 
in his own country, Italy — it was well 
known how beautiful it was, the beautiful 
Italy; but then there were no Trappists 
in Italy; and he had a soul to save ; and 
here he was. 

I am afraid I must be at bottom, what 
a cheerful Indian critic has dubbed me, 'a 
faddling hedonist ; ' for this description of 
the brother's motives gave me somewhat 
of a shock. I should have preferred to 
think he had chosen the life for its own 
sake, and not for ulterior purposes ; and this 
shows how profoundly I was out of sympa- 
thy with these good Trappists, even when I 
was doing my best to sympathise. But to 
the curi the argument seemed decisive. 

'Hear that!' he cried. 'And I have 
seen a marquis here, a marquis, a marquis ' 
— he repeated the holy word three times 



The Boarders 107 

over — ' and other persons high in society ; 
and generals. And here, at your side, is 
this gentleman, who has been so many 
years in armies — decorated, an old warrior. 
And here he is, ready to dedicate himself 
to God.' 

I was by this time so thoroughly embar- 
rassed that I pled cold feet, and made my 
escape from the apartment. It was a furi- 
ous windy morning, with a sky much 
cleared, and long and potent intervals of 
sunshine ; and I wandered until dinner in 
the wild country towards the east, sorely 
staggered and beaten upon by the gale, but 
rewarded with some striking views. 

At dinner the Work of the Propagation 
of the Faith was recommenced, and on this 
occasion still more distastefully to me. 
The priest asked me many questions as to 
the contemptible faith of my fathers, and 
received my replies with a kind of ecclesias- 
tical titter. 

i Your sect/ he said once ; * for I think 
you will admit it would be doing it too 
much honour to call it a religion.' 



108 Our Lady of the Snows 

' As you please, monsieur/ said I. ' La 
parole est a vous.' 

At length I grew annoyed beyond endur- 
ance ; and although he was on his own 
ground and, what is more to the purpose, 
an old man, and so holding a claim upon 
my toleration, I could not avoid a protest 
against this uncivil usage. He was sadly 
discountenanced. 

1 1 assure you,' he said, ' I have no incli- 
nation to laugh in my heart. I have no 
other feeling but interest in your soul.' 

And there ended my conversion. Hon- 
est man ! he was no dangerous deceiver ; 
but a country parson, full of zeal and faith. 
Long may he tread Gevaudan with his 
kilted skirts — a man strong to walk and 
strong to comfort his parishioners in 
death ! I daresay he would beat bravely 
through a snowstorm where his duty called 
him ; and it is not always the most faith- 
ful believer who makes the cunningest 
apostle. 






UPPER G^VAUDAN 

{Continued) 

1 The bed was made, the room was fit, 
By punctual eve the stars were lit; 
The air was still, the water ran ; 
No need there was for maid or man, 
When we put up, my ass and I, 
At God 's green caravanserai* 

Old Play. 



UPPER GEVAUDAN 

(Continued) 
ACROSS THE GOULET 

THHE wind fell during dinner, and the sky 
remained clear ; so it was under bet- 
ter auspices that I loaded Modestine before 
the monastery-gate. My Irish friend ac- 
companied me so far on the way. As 
we came through the wood, there was 
Pere Apollinaire hauling his barrow ; and 
he too quitted his labours to go with me 
for perhaps a hundred yards, holding my 
hand between both of his in front of him. 
I parted first from one and then from the 
other with unfeigned regret, but yet with 
the glee of the traveller who shakes off the 
dust of one stage before hurrying forth 
upon another. Then Modestine and I 



ii2 Upper Gevaudan (continued) 

mounted the course of the Allier, which 
here led us back into Gevaudan towards 
its sources in the forest of Mercoire. It 
was but an inconsiderable burn before we 
left its guidance. Thence, over a hill, our 
way lay through a naked plateau, until we 
reached Chasserades at sundown. 

The company in the inn-kitchen that 
night were all men employed in survey for 
one of the projected railways. They were 
intelligent and conversible, and we decided 
the future of France over hot wine, until 
the state of the clock frightened us to rest. 
There were four beds in the little up-stairs 
room ; and we slept six. But I had a bed 
to myself, and persuaded them to leave 
the window open. 

1 He", bourgeois ; il est cinq heures I * was 
the cry that wakened me in the morning 
(Saturday, September 2%th). The room was 
full of a transparent darkness, which dimly 
showed me the other three beds and the 
five different nightcaps on the pillows. 
But out of the window the dawn was grow- 
ing ruddy in a long belt over the hill-tops, 



A crass the Goulet 113 

and day was about to flood the plateau. 
The hour was inspiriting ; and there seemed 
a promise of calm weather, which was 
perfectly fulfilled. I was soon under way 
with Modestine. The road lay for awhile 
over the plateau, and then descended 
through a precipitous village into the 
valley of the Chassezac. This stream ran 
among green meadows, well hidden from 
the world by its steep banks ; the broom 
was in flower, and here and there was a 
hamlet sending up its smoke. 

At last the path crossed the Chassezac 
upon a bridge, and, forsaking this deep 
hollow, set itself to cross the mountain of 
La Goulet. It wound up through Lestampes 
by upland fields and woods of beech and 
birch, and with every corner brought me 
into an acquaintance with some new inter- 
est. Even in the gully of the Chassezac my 
ear had been struck by a noise like that of 
a great bass bell ringing at the distance 
of many miles ; but this, as I continued 
to mount and draw nearer to it, seemed to 
change in character, and I found at length 

8 



ii4 Upper Gevaudan {continued) 

that it came from some one leading flocks 
afield to the note of a rural horn. The 
narrow street of Lestampes stood full of 
sheep, from wall to wall — black sheep and 
white, bleating with one accord like the 
birds in spring, and each one accompany- 
ing himself upon the sheep-bell round his 
neck. It made a pathetic concert, all in 
treble. A little higher, and I passed a pair 
of men in a tree with pruning-hooks, and 
one of them was singing the music of a 
bourrfe. Still further, and when I was 
already threading the birches, the crowing 
of cocks came cheerfully up to my ears, and 
along with that the voice of a flute dis- 
coursing a deliberate and plaintive air from 
one of the upland villages. I pictured 
to myself some grizzled, apple-cheeked, 
country schoolmaster fluting in his bit of 
a garden in the clear autumn sunshine. 
All these beautiful and interesting sounds 
filled my heart with an unwonted expec- 
tation ; and it appeared to me that, once 
past this range which I was mounting, I 
should descend into the garden of the world. 



Across the Goulet 115 

Nor was I deceived, for I was now done 
with rains and winds and a bleak country. 
The first part of my journey ended here ; 
and this was like an induction of sweet 
sounds into the other and more beautiful. 

There are other degrees of feyness, as of 
punishment, besides the capital ; and I was 
now led by my good spirits into an adven- 
ture which I relate in the interest of future 
donkey-drivers. The road zigzagged so 
widely on the hillside, that I chose a short 
cut by map and compass, and struck 
through the dwarf woods to catch the road 
again upon a higher level. It was my one 
serious conflict with Modestine. She would 
none of my short cut ; she turned in my 
face, she backed, she reared ; she, whom I 
had hitherto imagined to be dumb, actually 
brayed with a loud hoarse flourish, like a 
cock crowing for the dawn. I plied the 
goad with one hand ; with the other, so 
steep was the ascent, I had to hold on the 
pack-saddle. Half a dozen times she was 
nearly over backwards on the top of me ; 
half a dozen times, from sheer weariness of 



n6 Upper Gevaudan {continued) 

spirit, I was nearly giving it up, and leading 
her down again to follow the road. But I 
took the thing as a wager, and fought it 
through. I was surprised, as I went on my 
way again, by what appeared to be chill 
rain-drops falling on my hand, and more 
than once looked up in wonder at the cloud- 
less sky. But it was only sweat which came 
dropping from my brow. 

Over the summit of the Goulet there was 
no marked road — only upright stones posted 
from space to space to guide the drovers. 
The turf underfoot was springy and well 
scented. I had no company but a lark or 
two, and met but one bullock-cart between 
Lestampes and Bleymard. In front of me I 
saw a shallow valley, and beyond that the 
range of the Lozere, sparsely wooded and 
well enough modelled in the flanks, but 
straight and dull in outline. There was 
scarce a sign of culture ; only about Bley- 
mard, the white high-road from Villefort to 
Mende traversed a range of meadows, set 
with spiry poplars, and sounding from side 
to side with the bells of flocks and herds. 



A NIGHT AMONG THE PINES 

CROM Bleymard after dinner, although it 
was already late, I set out to scale a 
portion of the Lozere. An ill-marked stony 
drove road guided me forward; and I met 
nearly half a dozen bullock-carts descend- 
ing from the woods, each laden with a 
whole pine-tree for the winter's firing. At 
the top of the woods, which do not climb 
very high upon this cold ridge, I struck left- 
ward by a path among the pines, until I 
hit on a dell of green turf, where a stream- 
let made a little spout over some stones to 
serve me for a water-tap. ' In a more sacred 
or sequestered bower . . . nor nymph, nor 
faunus, haunted.' The trees were not old, 
but they grew thickly round the glade : 
there was no outlook, except north-east- 
ward upon distant hill-tops, or straight up- 
ward to the sky ; and the encampment felt 
secure and private like a room. By the 



n8 Upper Gevaudan {continued} 

time I had made my arrangements and fed 
Modestine, the day was already beginning 
to decline. I buckled myself to the knees 
into my sack and made a hearty meal ; and 
as soon as the sun went down, I pulled my 
cap over my eyes and fell asleep. 

Night is a dead monotonous period under 
a roof; but in the open world it passes 
lightly, with its stars and dews and per- 
fumes, and the hours are marked by 
changes in the face of Nature. What seems 
a kind of temporal death to people choked 
between walls and curtains, is only a light 
and living slumber to the man who sleeps 
a-field. All night long he can hear Nature 
breathing deeply and freely ; even as she 
takes her rest, she turns and smiles; and 
there is one stirring hour unknown to those 
who dwell in houses, when a wakeful influ- 
ence goes abroad over the sleeping hemi- 
sphere, and all the outdoor world are on 
their feet. It is then that the cock first 
crows, not this time to announce the dawn, 
but like a cheerful watchman speeding the 
course of night. Cattle awake on the mead- 



A Night among the Pines 119 

ows; sheep break their fast on dewy hill- 
sides, and change to a new lair among the 
ferns ; and houseless men, who have lain 
down with the fowls, open their dim eyes 
and behold the beauty of the night. 

At what inaudible summons, at what 
gentle touch of Nature, are all these sleep- 
ers thus recalled in the same hour to life ? 
Do the stars rain down an influence, or do 
we share some thrill of mother earth below 
our resting bodies? Even shepherds and 
old country-folk, who are the deepest read 
in these arcana, have not a guess as to the 
means or purpose of this nightly resurrec- 
tion. Towards two in the morning they 
declare the thing takes place; and neither 
know nor inquire further. And at least it 
is a pleasant incident. We are disturbed 
in our slumber only, like the luxurious 
Montaigne, i that we may the better and 
more sensibly relish it.' We have a mo- 
ment to look upon the stars. And there 
is a special pleasure for some minds in the 
reflection that we share the impulse with 
all outdoor creatures in our neighbourhood, 



120 Upper Gevatcdan (continued) 

that we have escaped out of the Bastille of 
civilisation, and are become, for the time 
being, a mere kindly animal and a sheep of 
Nature's flock. 

When that hour came to me among the 
pines, I wakened thirsty. My tin was 
standing by me half full of water. I 
emptied it at a draught ; and feeling broad 
awake after this internal cold aspersion, sat 
upright to make a cigarette. The stars 
were clear, coloured, and jewel-like, but 
not frosty. A faint silvery vapour stood 
for the Milky Way. All around me the 
black fir-points stood upright and stock- 
still. By the whiteness of the pack-saddle, 
I could see Modestine walking round and 
round at the length of her tether ; I could 
hear her steadily munching at the sward ; 
but there was not another sound, save the 
indescribable quiet talk of the runnel over 
the stones. I lay lazily smoking and study- 
ing the colour of the sky, as we call the 
void of space, from where it showed a red- 
dish gray behind the pines to where it 
showed a glossy blue-black between the 



A Night among the Pines 121 

stars. As if to be more like a pedlar, 
I wear a silver ring. This I could see 
faintly shining as I raised or lowered the 
cigarette ; and at each whiff the inside 
of my hand was illuminated, and became 
for a second the highest light in the land- 
scape. 

A faint wind, more like a moving cool- 
ness than a stream of air, passed down the 
glade from time to time ; so that even in 
my great chamber the air was being re- 
newed all night long. I thought with horror 
of the inn at Chasserades and the congre- 
gated nightcaps ; with horror of the noc- 
turnal prowesses of clerks and students, 
of hot theatres and pass-keys and close 
rooms. I have not often enjoyed a more 
serene possession of myself, nor felt more 
independent of material % aids. The outer 
world, from which we cower into our 
houses, seemed after all a gentle habitable 
place ; and night after night a man's bed, 
it seemed, was laid and waiting for him in 
the fields, where God keeps an open house. 
I thought I had rediscovered one of those 



122 Upper Gevaudan (continued) 

truths which are revealed to savages and 
hid from political economists : at the least, 
I had discovered a new pleasure for myself. 
And yet even while I was exulting in my 
solitude I became aware of a strange lack. 
I wished a companion to lie near me in the 
starlight, silent and not moving, but ever 
within touch. For there is a fellowship 
more quiet even than solitude, and which, 
rightly understood, is solitude made per- 
fect. And to live out of doors with the 
woman a man loves is of all lives the most 
complete and free. 

As I thus lay, between content and long- 
ing, a faint noise stole towards me through 
the pines. I thought, at first, it was the 
crowing of cocks or the barking of dogs at 
some very distant farm ; but steadily and 
gradually it took articulate shape in my 
ears, until I became aware that a passen- 
ger was going by upon the high-road in 
the valley, and singing loudly as he went. 
There was more of good-will than grace in 
his performance ; but he trolled with ample 
lungs ; and the sound of his voice took hold 



A Night among the Pines 123 

upon the hillside and set the air shaking in 
the leafy glens. I have heard people pass- 
ing by night in sleeping cities; some of 
them sang ; one, I remember, played loudly 
on the bagpipes. I have heard the rattle of 
a cart or carriage spring up suddenly after 
hours of stillness, and pass, for some min- 
utes, within the range of my hearing as I 
lay abed. There is a romance about all 
who are abroad in the black hours, and 
with something of a thrill we try to guess 
their business. But here the romance was 
double : first, this glad passenger, lit inter- 
nally with wine, who sent up his voice in 
music through the night ; and then I, on 
the other hand, buckled into my sack, and 
smoking alone in the pine-woods between 
four and five thousand feet towards the 
stars. 

When I awoke again {Sunday, 29th Sep- 
tember), many of the stars had disappeared ; 
only the stronger companions of the night 
still burned visibly overhead ; and away 
towards the east I saw a faint haze of light 
upon the horizon, such as had been the 



124 Upper Gevaudan (continued) 

Milky Way when I was last awake. Day 
was at hand. I lit my lantern, and by its 
glowworm light put on my boots and gait- 
ers ; then I broke up some bread for Modes- 
tine, filled my can at the water-tap, and lit 
my spirit-lamp to boil myself some choco- 
late. The blue darkness lay long in the 
glade where I had so sweetly slumbered ; 
but soon there was a broad streak of orange 
melting into gold along the mountain-tops 
of Vivarais. A solemn glee possessed my 
mind at this gradual and lovely coming in 
of day. I heard the runnel with delight ; 
I looked round me for something beautiful 
and unexpected ; but the still black pine- 
trees, the hollow glade, the munching ass, 
remained unchanged in figure. Nothing 
had altered but the light, and that, indeed, 
shed over all a spirit of life and of breath- 
ing peace, and moved me to a strange ex- 
hilaration. 

I drank my water chocolate, which was 
hot if it was not rich, and strolled here and 
there, and up and down about the glade. 
While I was thus delaying, a gush of steady 



A Night among the Pines 125 

wind, as long as a heavy sigh, poured direct 
out of the quarter of the morning. It was 
cold, and set me sneezing. The trees near 
at hand tossed their black plumes in its 
passage ; and I could see the thin distant 
spires of pine along the edge of the hill 
rock slightly to and fro against the golden 
east. Ten minutes after, the sunlight 
spread at a gallop along the hillside, scat- 
tering shadows and sparkles, and the day 
had come completely. 

I hastened to prepare my pack, and tackle 
the steep ascent that lay before me ; but I 
had something on my mind. It was only a 
fancy ; yet a fancy will sometimes be im- 
portunate. I had been most hospitably 
received and punctually served in my green 
caravanserai. The room was airy, the 
water excellent, and the dawn had called 
me to a moment. I say nothing of the 
tapestries or the inimitable ceiling, nor yet 
of the view which I commanded from the 
windows ; but I felt I was in some one's 
debt for all this liberal entertainment. And 
so it pleased me, in a half-laughing way, to 



126 Upper Gevaudan {continued) 

leave pieces of money on the turf as I went 
along, until I had left enough for my night's 
lodging. I trust they did not fall to some 
rich and churlish drover. 



THE 
COUNTRY OF THE CAMISARDS 

4 We travelled in the print of olden wars; 
Yet all the land was green; 
And love we found, and peace, 
Where fire and war had been. 
They pass and smile, the children of the sword — 
No more the sword they wield; 
And 0, how deep the corn 
Along the battlefield!' 

W. P. Bannatyne. 









THE 
COUNTRY OF THE CAMISARDS 

ACROSS THE LOZERE 

HTHE track that I had followed in the 
evening soon died out, and I con- 
tinued to follow over a bald turf ascent a 
row of stone pillars, such as had conducted 
me across the Goulet. It was already- 
warm. I tied my jacket on the pack, and 
walked in my knitted waistcoat. Modestine 
herself was in high spirits, and broke of 
her own accord, for the first time in my 
experience, into a jolting trot that set the 
oats swashing in the pocket of my coat. 
The view, back upon the northern Gevau- 
dan, extended with every step ; scarce a 
tree, scarce a house, appeared upon the 
fields of wild hill that ran north, east, and 



130 The Country of the Camisards 

west, all blue and gold in the haze and 
sunlight of the morning. A multitude of 
little birds kept sweeping and twittering 
about my path ; they perched on the stone 
pillars, they pecked and strutted on the 
turf, and I saw them circle in volleys in 
the blue air, and show, from time to time, 
translucent flickering wings between the 
sun and me. 

Almost from the first moment of my 
march, a faint large noise, like a distant 
surf, had filled my ears. Sometimes I was 
tempted to think it the voice of a neigh- 
bouring waterfall, and sometimes a subjec- 
tive result of the utter stillness of the hill. 
But as I continued to advance, the noise 
increased and became like the hissing of an 
enormous tea-urn, and at the same time 
breaths of cool air began to reach me from 
the direction of the summit. At length I 
understood. It was blowing stiffly from 
the south upon the other slope of the 
Loztre, and every step that I took I was 
drawing nearer to the wind. 

Although it had been long desired, it was 



Across the Lozere 13 * 

quite unexpectedly at last that my eyes 
rose above the summit. A step that seemed 
no way more decisive than many other 
steps that had preceded it — and, ' like stout 
Cortez when, with eagle eyes, he stared on 
the Pacific ;' I took possession, in my own 
name, of a new quarter of the world. For 
behold, instead of the gross turf rampart 
I had been mounting for so long, a view 
into the hazy air of heaven, and a land of 
intricate blue hills below my feet. 

The Lozere lies nearly east and west, cut- 
ting Gdvaudan into two unequal parts ; its 
highest point, this Pic de Finiels, on which 
I was then standing, rises upwards of five 
thousand six hundred feet above the sea, 
and in clear weather commands a view over 
all lower Languedoc to the Mediterranean 
Sea. I have spoken with people who either 
pretended or believed that they had seen, 
from the Pic de Finiels, white ships sailing 
by Montpellier and Cette. Behind was the 
upland northern country through which my 
way had lain, peopled by a dull race, with- 
out wood, without much grandeur of hill- 



13 2 The Country of the Camisards 

form, and famous in the past for little 
beside wolves. But in front of me, half 
veiled in sunny haze, lay a new Gevaudan, 
rich, picturesque, illustrious for stirring 
events. Speaking largely, I was in the 
Cevennes at Monastier, and during all my 
journey ; but there is a strict and local sense 
in which only this confused and shaggy 
country at my feet has any title to the 
name, and in this sense the peasantry em- 
ploy the word. These are the Cevennes 
with an emphasis : the Cevennes of the Ce- 
vennes. In that' undecipherable labyrinth 
of hills, a war of bandits, a war of wild 
beasts, raged for two years between the 
Grand Monarch with all his troops and 
marshals on the one hand, and a few thou- 
sand Protestant mountaineers upon the 
other. A hundred and eighty years ago, 
the Camisards held a station even on the 
Lozere, where I stood ; they had an organi- 
sation, arsenals, a military and religious 
hierarchy ; their affairs were * the discourse 
of every coffee-house' in London ; England 
sent fleets in their support ; their leaders 



Across the Lozere 133 

prophesied and murdered ; with colours 
and drums, and the singing of old French 
psalms, their bands sometimes affronted 
daylight, marched before walled cities, and 
dispersed the generals of the king ; and 
sometimes at night, or in masquerade, pos- 
sessed themselves of strong castles, and 
avenged treachery upon their allies and 
cruelty upon their foes. There, a hundred 
and eighty years ago, was the chivalrous 
Roland, ' Count and Lord Roland, general- 
issimo of the Protestants in France' grave, 
silent, imperious, pock-marked ex-dragoon, 
whom a lady followed in his wanderings 
out of love. There was Cavalier, a baker's 
apprentice with a genius for war, elected 
brigadier of Camisards at seventeen, to die 
at fifty-five the English governor of Jersey. 
There again was Castanet, a partisan leader 
in a voluminous peruke and with a taste 
for controversial divinity. Strange gen- 
erals, who moved apart to take counsel 
with the God of Hosts, and fled or offered 
battle, set sentinels or slept in an un- 
guarded camp, as the Spirit whispered to 



134 The Country of the Camisards 

their hearts ! And there, to follow these 
and other leaders, was the rank and file of 
prophets and disciples, bold, patient, inde- 
fatigable, hardy to run upon the mountains, 
cheering their rough life with psalms, eager 
to fight, eager to pray, listening devoutly 
to the oracles of brainsick children, and 
mystically putting a grain of wheat among 
the pewter balls with which they charged 
their muskets. 

I had travelled hitherto through a dull 
district, and in the track of nothing more 
notable than the child-eating Beast of 
Ge'vaudan, the Napoleon Buonaparte of 
wolves. But now I was to go down into 
the scene of a romantic chapter — or, better, 
a romantic footnote — in the history of the 
world. What was left of all this bygone 
dust and heroism ? I was told that Protes- 
tantism still survived in this head seat of 
Protestant resistance ; so much the priest 
himself had told me in the monastery 
parlour. But I had yet to learn if it were 
a bare survival, or a lively and generous 
tradition. Again, if in the northern 



Across the Lozere 135 

Cevennes the people are narrow in religious 
judgments, and more filled with zeal than 
charity, what was I to look for in this 
land of persecution and reprisal — in a land 
where the tyranny of the Church produced 
the Camisard rebellion, and the terror of 
the Camisards threw the Catholic peasantry 
into legalised revolt upon the other side, 
so that Camisard and Florentin skulked 
for each other's lives among the moun- 
tains ? 

Just on the brow of the hill, where I 
paused to look before me, the series of 
stone pillars came abruptly to an end ; and 
only a little below, a sort of track appeared 
and began to go down a breakneck slope, 
turning like a corkscrew as it went. It led 
into a valley between falling hills, stubbly 
with rocks like a reaped field of corn, and 
floored further down with green meadows. 
I followed the track with precipitation ; 
the steepness of the slope, the continual 
agile turning of the line of the descent, 
and the old unwearied hope of finding 
something new in a new country, all con- 



136 The Country of the Camisards 

spired to lend me wings. Yet a little 
lower and a stream began, collecting itself 
together out of many fountains, and soon 
making a glad noise among the hills. 
Sometimes it would cross the track in a bit 
of waterfall, with a pool, in which Modestine 
refreshed her feet. 

The whole descent is like a dream to 
me, so rapidly was it accomplished. I had 
scarcely left the summit ere the valley had 
closed round my path, and the sun beat 
upon me, walking in a stagnant lowland 
atmosphere. The track became a road, 
and went up and down in easy undula- 
tions. I passed cabin after cabin, but all 
seemed deserted ; and I saw not a human 
creature, nor heard any sound except that 
of the stream. I was, however, in a dif- 
ferent country from the day before. The 
stony skeleton of the world was here vigor- 
ously displayed to sun and air. The slopes 
were steep and changeful. Oak-trees clung 
along the hills, well grown, wealthy in leaf, 
and touched by the autumn with strong 
and luminous colours. Here and there 



Across the Lozere 137 

another stream would fall in from the right 
or the left, down a gorge of snow-white 
and tumultuary boulders. The river in 
the bottom (for it was rapidly growing a 
river, collecting on all hands as it trotted 
on its way) here foamed awhile in des- 
perate rapids, and there lay in pools of 
the most enchanting sea-green shot with 
watery browns. As far as I have gone, 
I have never seen a river of so changeful 
and delicate a hue ; crystal was not more 
clear, the meadows were not by half so 
green ; and at every pool I saw I felt a 
thrill of longing to be out of these hot, 
dusty, and material garments, and bathe 
my naked body in the mountain air and 
water. All the time as I went on I never 
forgot it was the Sabbath; the stillness 
was a perpetual reminder ; and I heard 
in spirit the church-bells clamouring all 
over Europe, and the psalms of a thousand 
churches. 

At length a human sound struck upon 
my ear — a cry strangely modulated be- 
tween pathos and derision ; and looking 



i3 8 The Country of the Camisards 

across the valley, I saw a little urchin sit- 
ting in a meadow, with his hands about 
his knees, and dwarfed to almost comical 
smallness by the distance. But the rogue 
had picked me out as I went down the 
road, from oak-wood on to oak-wood, driv- 
ing Modestine ; and he made me the com- 
pliments of the new country in this trem- 
ulous high-pitched salutation. And as all 
noises are lovely and natural at a sufficient 
distance, this also, coming through so much 
clean hill air and crossing all the green 
valley, sounded pleasant to my ear, and 
seemed a thing rustic, like the oaks or the 
river. 

A little after, the stream that I was fol- 
lowing fell into the Tarn at Pont de Mont- 
vert of bloody memory. 



PONT DE MONTVERT 

/^NE of the first things I encountered in 
Pont de Montvert was, if I remember 
rightly, the Protestant temple ; but this 
was but the type of other novelties. A 
subtle atmosphere distinguishes a town in 
England from a town in France, or even in 
Scotland. At Carlisle you can see you are 
in one country ; at Dumfries, thirty miles 
away, you are as sure that you are in the 
other. I should find it difficult to tell in 
what particulars Pont de Montvert differed 
from Monastier or Langogne, or even Bley- 
mard ; but the difference existed, and 
spoke eloquently to the eyes. The place, 
with its houses, its lanes, its glaring river- 
bed, wore an indescribable air of the 
South. 

All was Sunday bustle in the streets and 
in the public-house, as all had been Sab- 
bath peace among the mountains. There 



14° The Country of the Camzsards 

must have been near a score of us at din* 
ner by eleven before noon ; and after I had 
eaten and drunken, and sat writing up my 
journal, I suppose as many more came 
dropping in one after another, or by twos 
and threes. In crossing the Lozere I had 
not only come among new natural features, 
but moved into the territory of a different 
race. These people, as they hurriedly de- 
spatched their viands in an intricate sword- 
play of knives, questioned and answered 
me with a degree of intelligence which ex- 
celled all that I had met, except among 
the railway folk at Chasserades. They had 
open telling faces, and were lively both in 
speech and manner. They not only en- 
tered thoroughly into the spirit of my little 
trip, but more than one declared, if he were 
rich enough, he would like to set forth on 
such another. 

Even physically there was a pleasant 
change. I had not seen a pretty woman 
since I left Monastier, and there but one. 
Now of the three who sat down with me to 
dinner, one was certainly not beautiful — a 



Pont de Montvert 141 

poor timid thing of forty, quite troubled at 
this roaring table d'hote, whom I squired 
and helped to wine, and pledged and tried 
generally to encourage, with quite a con- 
trary effect ; but the other two, both mar- 
ried, were both more handsome than the 
average of women. And Clarisse ? What 
shall I say of Clarisse? She waited the 
table with a heavy placable nonchalance, 
like a performing cow ; her great gray eyes 
were steeped in amorous languor ; her fea- 
tures, although fleshy, were of an original 
and accurate design ; her mouth had a curl ; 
her nostril spoke of dainty pride ; her cheek 
fell into strange and interesting lines. It 
was a face capable of strong emotion, and, 
with training, it offered the promise of del- 
icate sentiment. It seemed pitiful to see 
so good a model left to country admirers 
and a country way of thought. Beauty 
should at least have touched society ; then, 
in a moment, it throws off a weight that 
lay upon it, it becomes conscious of itself, 
it puts on an elegance, learns a gait and a 
carriage of the head, and, in a moment, 



i4 2 The Country of the Camisards 

patet dea. Before I left I assured Clarisse 
of my hearty admiration. She took it like 
milk, without embarrassment or wonder, 
merely looking at me steadily with her 
great eyes ; and I own the result upon my- 
self was some confusion. If Clarisse could 
read English, I should not dare to add that 
her figure was unworthy of her face. Hers 
was a case for stays ; but that may perhaps 
grow better as she gets up in years. 

Pont de Montvert, or Greenhill Bridge, as 
we might say at home, is a place memora- 
ble in the story of the Camisards. It was 
here that the war broke out ; here that 
those southern Covenanters slew their 
Archbishop Sharp e. The persecution on 
the one hand, the febrile enthusiasm on 
the other, are almost equally difficult to 
understand in these quiet modern days, 
and with our easy modern beliefs and dis- 
beliefs. The Protestants were one and all 
beside their right minds with zeal and 
sorrow. They were all prophets and 
prophetesses. Children at the breast would 
exhort their parents to good works. ' A 



Pont de Montvert 143 

child of fifteen months at Quissac spoke 
from its mother's arms, agitated and sob- 
bing, distinctly and with a loud voice.' 
Marshal Villars has seen a town where all 
the women ' seemed possessed by the 
devil,' and had trembling fits, and uttered 
prophecies publicly upon the streets. A 
prophetess of Vivarais was hanged at 
Montpellier because blood flowed from her 
eyes and nose, and she declared that she 
was weeping tears of blood for the misfor- 
tunes of the Protestants. And it was not 
only women and children. Stalwart dan- 
gerous fellows, used to swing the sickle or 
to wield the forest axe, were likewise 
shaken with strange paroxysms, and spoke 
oracles with sobs and streaming tears. A 
persecution unsurpassed in violence had 
lasted near a score of years, and this was 
the result upon the persecuted ; hanging, 
burning, breaking on the wheel, had been 
in vain ; the dragoons had left their hoof- 
marks over all the country-side ; there 
were men rowing in the galleys, and women 
pining in the prisons of the Church ; and 



144 The Country of the Camisards 

not a thought was changed in the heart of 
any upright Protestant. 

Now the head and forefront of the perse- 
cution — after Lamoignon de Bdvile — Fran- 
gois de Langlade du Chayla (pronounce 
Che'ila), Archpriest of the Cevennes and 
Inspector of Missions in the same country, 
had a house in which he sometimes dwelt 
in the town of Pont de Montvert. He was 
a conscientious person, who seems to have 
been intended by nature for a pirate, and 
now fifty-five, an age by which a man has 
learned all the moderation of which he is 
capable. A missionary in his youth in 
China, he there suffered martyrdom, was 
left for dead, and only succoured and 
brought back to life by the charity of a 
pariah. We must suppose the pariah 
devoid of second sight, and not purposely 
malicious in this act. Such an experience, 
it might be thought, would have cured a 
man of the desire to persecute ; but the 
human spirit is a thing strangely put to- 
gether ; and, having been a Christian mar- 
tyr, Du Chayla became a Christian perse- 



Pont de Montvert 145 

cutor. The Work of the Propagation of 
the Faith went roundly forward in his 
hands. His house in Pont de Montvert 
served him as a prison. There he plucked 
out the hairs of the beard, and closed the 
hands of his prisoners upon live coal, to 
convince them that they were deceived in 
their opinions. And yet had not he him- 
self tried and proved the inefficacy of these 
carnal arguments among the Boodhists in 
China ? 

Not only was life made intolerable in 
Languedoc, but flight was rigidly forbid- 
den. One Massip, a muleteer, and well 
acquainted with the mountain-paths, had 
already guided several troops of fugitives 
in safety to Geneva ; and on him, with an- 
other convoy, consisting mostly of women 
dressed as men, Du Chayla, in an evil 
hour for himself, laid his hands. The 
Sunday following, there was a conventicle 
of Protestants in the woods of Altefage 
upon Mount Bouges ; where there stood 
up one Seguier — Spirit Siguier, as his com- 
panions called him — a woolcarder, tall, 

10 



X46 The Country of the Camisards 

black-faced, and toothless, but a man full 
of prophecy. He declared, in the name of 
God, that the time for submission had 
gone by, and they must betake themselves 
to arms for the deliverance of their breth- 
ren and the destruction of the priests. 

The next night, 24th July 1702, a sound 
disturbed the Inspector of Missions as he 
sat in his prison-house at Pont de Montvert ; 
the voices of many men upraised in psal- 
mody drew nearer and nearer through the 
town. It was ten at night ; he had his 
court about him, priests, soldiers, and ser- 
vants, to the number of twelve or fifteen ; 
and now dreading the insolence of a con. 
venticle below his very windows, he ordered 
forth his soldiers to report. But the psalm, 
singers were already at his door, fifty 
strong, led by the inspired Siguier, and 
breathing death. To their summons, the 
archpriest made answer like a stout old 
persecutor, and bade his garrison fire upon 
the mob. One Camisard (for, according to 
some, it was in this night's work that they 
came by the name) fell at this discharge ; 



Pont de Montvert H7 

his comrades burst in the door with hatch- 
ets and a beam of wood, overran the lower 
storey of the house, set free the prisoners, 
and finding one of them in the vine, a 
sort of Scavenger s Daughter of the place 
and period, redoubled in fury against Du 
Chayla, and sought by repeated assaults to 
carry the upper floors. But he, on his side, 
had given absolution to his men, and they 
bravely held the staircase. 

1 Children of God/ cried the prophet, 
1 hold your hands. Let us burn the house, 
with the priest and the satellites of Baal* 

The fire caught readily. Out of an 
upper window Du Chayla and his men low- 
ered themselves into the garden by means 
of knotted sheets ; some escaped across the 
river under the bullets of the insurgents ; 
but the archpriest himself fell, broke his 
thigh, and could only crawl into the hedge. 
What were his reflections as this second 
martyrdom drew near? A poor, brave, 
besotted, hateful man, who had done his 
duty resolutely according to his light both 
in the Cevennes and China. He found at 



148 The Country of the Camisards 

least one telling word to say in his defence; 
for when the roof fell in and the upburst- 
ing flames discovered his retreat, and they 
came and dragged him to the public place 
of the town, raging and calling him damned 
— 'If I be damned/ said he, ' why should 
you also damn yourselves ? ' 

Here was a good reason for the last ; but 
in the course of his inspectorship he had 
given many stronger which all told in a 
contrary direction ; and these he was now 
to hear. One by one, Seguier first, the 
Camisards drew near and stabbed him. 
' This,' they said, ' is for my father broken 
on the wheel. This for my brother in the 
galleys. That for my mother or my sister 
imprisoned in your cursed convents.' Each 
gave his blow and his reason ; and then all 
kneeled and sang psalms around the body 
till the dawn. With the dawn, still sing- 
ing, they defiled away towards Frugeres, 
further up the Tarn, to pursue the work 
of vengeance, leaving Du Chaylas prison- 
house in ruins, and his body pierced with 
two-and-fifty wounds upon the public place. 



Pont de Montvert 149 

Tis a wild night's work, with its accom- 
paniment of psalms ; and it seems as if a 
psalm must always have a sound of threat- 
ening in that town upon the Tarn. But 
the story does not end, even so far as con- 
cerns Pont de Montvert, with the departure 
of the Camisards. The career of Siguier 
was brief and bloody. Two more priests 
and a whole family at Ladeveze, from the 
father to the servants, fell by his hand or 
by his orders ; and yet he was but a day 
or two at large, and restrained all the time 
by the presence of the soldiery. Taken 
at length by a famous soldier of fortune, 
Captain Poul, he appeared unmoved before 
his judges. 

' Your name ? ' they asked. 

' Pierre Siguier.' 

* Why are you called Spirit ? ' 

' Because the Spirit of the Lord is with 
me.' 

1 Your domicile ? ' 

1 Lately in the desert, and soon in 
heaven/ 

1 Have you no remorse for your crimes?' 



ISO The Country of the Camzsards 

1 1 have committed none. My soul is like 
a garden full of shelter and of fountains' 

At Pont de Montvert, on the 12th of 
August, he had his right hand stricken from 
his body, and was burned alive. And his 
soul was like a garden ? So perhaps was 
the soul of Du Chayla, the Christian mar- 
tyr. And perhaps if you could read in my 
soul, or I could read in yours, our own 
composure might seem little less surprising. 

Du Chaylds house still stands, with a 
new roof, beside one of the bridges of the 
town ; and if you are curious you may see 
the terrace-garden into which he dropped. 



IN THE VALLEY OF THE TARN 

A NEW road leads from Pont de Montvert 
to Florae by the valley of the Tarn ; 
a smooth sandy ledge, it runs about half- 
way between the summit of the cliffs and 
the river in the bottom of the valley ; and 
I went in and out, as I followed it, from 
bays of shadow into promontories of after- 
noon sun. This was a pass like that of 
Killiecrankie ; a deep turning gully in the 
hills, with the Tarn making a wonderful 
hoarse uproar far below, and craggy sum- 
mits standing in the sunshine high above. 
A thin fringe of ash-trees ran about the hill- 
tops, like ivy on a ruin ; but on the lower 
slopes, and far up every glen, the Span- 
ish chestnut-trees stood each four-square 
to heaven under its tented foliage. Some 
were planted, each on its own terrace no 
larger than a bed ; some, trusting in their 
roots, found strength to grow and pros- 



i5 2 The Country of the Camisards 

per and be straight and large upon the 
rapid slopes of the valley ; others, where 
there was a margin to the river, stood mar- 
shalled in a line and mighty like cedars of 
Lebanon. Yet even where they grew most 
thickly they were not to be thought of as 
a wood, but as a herd of stalwart individ- 
uals ; and the dome of each tree stood forth 
separate and large, and as it were a little 
hill, from among the domes of its compan- 
ions. They gave forth a faint sweet per- 
fume which pervaded the air of the after- 
noon ; autumn had put tints of gold and 
tarnish in the green ; and the sun so shone 
through and kindled the broad foliage, that 
each chestnut was relieved against another, 
not in shadow, but in light. A humble 
sketcher here laid down his pencil in de- 
spair. 

I wish I could convey a notion of the 
growth of these noble trees ; of how they 
strike out boughs like the oak, and trail 
sprays of drooping foliage like the willow ; 
of how they stand on upright fluted col- 
umns like the pillars of a church ; or like 



In the Valley of the Tarn 153 

the olive, from the most shattered bole can 
put out smooth and youthful shoots, and 
begin a new life upon the ruins of the old. 
Thus they partake of the nature of many 
different trees ; and even their prickly top- 
knots, seen near at hand against the sky, 
have a certain palm-like air that impresses 
the imagination. But their individuality, 
although compounded of so many ele- 
ments, is but the richer and the more 
original. And to look down upon a level 
filled with these knolls of foliage, or to 
see a clan of old unconquerable chestnuts 
cluster ' like herded elephants ' upon the 
spur of a mountain, is to rise to higher 
thoughts of the powers that are in Nature. 
Between Modestine s laggard humour and 
the beauty of the scene, we made little 
progress all that afternoon ; and at last 
finding the sun, although still far from 
setting, was already beginning to desert 
the narrow valley of the Tarn, I began to 
cast about for a place to camp in. This 
was not easy to find ; the terraces were 
too narrow, and the ground, where it was 



154 The Country of the Camisards 

unterraced, was usually too steep for a man 
to lie upon. I should have slipped all 
night, and awakened towards morning with 
my feet or my head in the river. 

After perhaps a mile, I saw, some sixty 
feet above the road, a little] plateau large 
enough to hold my sack, and securely 
parapeted by the trunk of an aged and 
enormous chestnut. Thither, with infinite 
trouble, I goaded and kicked the reluctant 
Modestine, and there I hastened to unload 
her. There was only room for myself 
upon the plateau, and I had to go nearly 
as high again before I found so much as 
standing room for the ass. It was on a 
heap of rolling stones, on an artificial 
terrace, certainly not five feet square in 
all. Here I tied her to a chestnut, and 
having given her corn and bread and made 
a pile of chestnut-leaves, of which I found 
her greedy, I descended once more to my 
own encampment. 

The position was unpleasantly exposed. 
One or two carts went by upon the road ; 
and as long as daylight lasted I concealed 



In the Valley of the Tarn 155 

myself, for all the world like a hunted 
Camisard, behind my fortification of vast 
chestnut trunk ; for I was passionately afraid 
of discovery and the visit of jocular persons 
in the night. Moreover, I saw that I must 
be early awake ; for these chestnut gardens 
had been the scene of industry no farther 
gone than on the day before. The slope 
was strewn with lopped branches, and here 
and there a great package of leaves was 
propped against a trunk ; for even the leaves 
are serviceable, and the peasants use them 
in winter by way of fodder for their animals. 
I picked a meal in fear and trembling, half 
lying down to hide myself from the road ; 
and I daresay I was as much concerned as 
if I had been a scout from Joanis band 
above upon the Lozere, or from Salomons 
across the Tarn, in the old times of psalm- 
singing and blood. Or, indeed, perhaps 
more ; for the Camisards had a remarkable 
confidence in God ; and a tale comes back 
into my memory of how the Count of GV- 
vaudan, riding with a party of dragoons and 
a notary at his saddlebow to enforce the 



156 The Country of the Camisards 

oath of fidelity in all the country hamlets, 
entered a valley in the woods, and found 
Cavalier and his men at dinner, gaily seated 
on the grass, and their hats crowned with 
box-tree garlands, while fifteen women 
washed their linen in the stream. Such 
was a field festival in 1703 ; at that date 
Antony Watteau would be painting similar 
subjects. 

This was a very different camp from that 
of the night before in the cool and silent 
pine-woods. It was warm and even stifling 
in the valley. The shrill song of frogs, like 
the tremolo note of a whistle with a pea in 
it, rang up from the riverside before the 
sun was down. In the growing dusk, faint 
rustlings began to run to and fro among 
the fallen leaves ; from time to time a 
faint chirping or cheaping noise would fall 
upon my ear ; and from time to time I 
thought I could see the movement of 
something swift and indistinct between 
the chestnuts. A profusion of large ants 
swarmed upon the ground ; bats whisked 
by, and mosquitoes droned overhead. The 






In the Valley of the Tarn i$7 

long boughs with their bunches of leaves 
hung against the sky like garlands ; and 
those immediately above and around me 
had somewhat the air of a trellis which 
should have been wrecked and half over- 
thrown in a gale of wind. 

Sleep for a long time fled my eyelids ; 
and just as I was beginning to feel quiet 
stealing over my limbs, and settling densely 
on my mind, a noise at my head startled 
me broad awake again, and, I will frankly 
confess it, brought my heart into my 
mouth. It was such a noise as a person 
would make scratching loudly with a finger- 
nail, it came from under the knapsack 
which served me for a pillow, and it was 
thrice repeated before I had time to sit up 
and turn about. Nothing was to be seen, 
nothing more was to be heard, but a few 
of these mysterious rustlings far and near, 
and the ceaseless accompaniment of the 
river and the frogs. I learned next day 
that the chestnut gardens are infested by 
rats ; rustling, chirping, and scraping were 
probably all due to these ; but the puzzle, 



158 The Country of the Camisards 

for the moment, was insoluble, and I had 
to compose myself for sleep, as best I 
could, in wondering uncertainty about my 
neighbours. 

I was wakened in the gray of the morn- 
ing {Monday, 30M September) by the sound 
of footsteps not far off upon the stones, 
and opening my eyes, I beheld a peasant 
going by among the chestnuts by a foot- 
path that I had not hitherto observed. He 
turned his head neither to the right nor 
to the left, and disappeared in a few strides 
among the foliage. Here was an escape ! 
But it was plainly more than time to be 
moving. The peasantry were abroad ; 
scarce less terrible to me in my nondescript 
position than the soldiers of Captain Poul 
to an undaunted Camisard. I fed Modes- 
tine with what haste I could ; but as I was 
returning to my sack, I saw a man and a 
boy come down the hillside in a direction 
crossing mine. They unintelligibly hailed 
me, and I replied with inarticulate but 
cheerful sounds, and hurried forward to get 
into my gaiters. 






In the Valley of the Tarn 159 

The pair, who seemed to be father and 
son, came slowly up to the plateau, and 
stood close beside me for some time in 
silence. The bed was open, and I saw 
with regret my revolver lying patently dis- 
closed on the blue wool. At last, after 
they had looked me all over, and the 
silence had grown laughably embarrassing, 
the man demanded in what seemed un- 
friendly tones : 

* You have slept here ? ' 

* Yes,' said I. ' As you see.' 
1 Why ? ' he asked. 

1 My faith,' I answered lightly, ' 1 was 
tired.' 

He next inquired where I was going and 
what I had had for dinner ; and then, with- 
out the least transition, * Cest bien' he 
added, ' come along.' And he and his son, 
without another word, turned off to the 
next chestnut-tree but one, which they set 
to pruning. The thing had passed off 
more simply than I hoped. He was a 
grave respectable man ; and his unfriendly 
voice did not imply that he thought he 



160 The Country of the Camisards 

was speaking to a criminal, but merely to 
an inferior. 

I was soon on the road, nibbling a cake 
of chocolate and seriously occupied with 
a case of conscience. Was I to pay for 
my night's lodging? I had slept ill, the 
bed was full of fleas in the shape of ants, 
there was no water in the room, the very 
dawn had neglected to call me in the 
morning. I might have missed a train, 
had there been any in the neighbourhood 
to catch. Clearly, I was dissatisfied with 
my entertainment ; and I decided I should 
not pay unless I met a beggar. 

The valley looked even lovelier by morn- 
ing ; and soon the road descended to the 
level of the river. Here, in a place where 
many straight and prosperous chestnuts 
stood together, making an aisle upon a 
swarded terrace, I made my morning toi- 
lette in the water of the Tarn. It was 
marvellously clear, thrillingly cool ; the 
soapsuds disappeared as if by magic in 
the swift current, and the white boulders 
gave one a model for cleanliness. To wash 



In the Valley of the Tarn 161 

in one of God's rivers in the open air seems 
to me a sort of cheerful solemnity or semi- 
pagan act of worship. To dabble among 
dishes in a bedroom may perhaps make 
clean the body ; but the imagination takes 
no share in such a cleansing. I went on 
with a light and peaceful heart, and sang 
psalms to the spiritual ear as I advanced. 

Suddenly up came an old woman, who 
point-blank demanded alms. 

* Good,' thought I ; ' here comes the 
waiter with the bill.' 

And I paid for my night's lodging on the 
spot. Take it how you please, but this 
was the first and the last beggar that I met 
with during all my tour. 

A step or two farther I was overtaken by 

an old man in a brown nightcap, clear-eyed, 

weather-beaten, with a faint excited smile. 

A little girl followed him, driving two 

sheep and a goat ; but she kept in our 

wake, while the old man walked beside 

me and talked about the morning and the 

valley. It was not much past six; and 

for healthy people who have slept enough, 
ii 



1 62 The Country of the Camisards 

that is an hour of expansion and of open 
and trustful talk. 

' Connaissez-vous le Seigneur ? ' he said at 
length. 

I asked him what Seigneur he meant ; 
but he only repeated the question with 
more emphasis and a look in his eyes de- 
noting hope and interest. 

1 Ah/ said I, pointing upwards, ' I under- 
stand you now. Yes, I know Him ; He is 
the best of acquaintances.' 

The old man said he was delighted. 
' Hold,' he added, striking his bosom ; ' it 
makes me happy here.' There were a few 
who knew the Lord in these valleys, he 
went on to tell me ; not many, but a few. 
' Many are called/ he quoted, ' and few 
chosen/ 

1 My father/ said I, ' it is not easy to say 
who know the Lord ; and it is none of our 
business. Protestants and Catholics, and 
even those who worship stones, may know 
Him and be known by Him ; for He has 
made all.' 

I did not know I was so good a preacher. 



In the Valley of the Tarn 163 

The old man assured me he thought as I 
did, and repeated his expressions of pleas- 
ure at meeting me. ' We are so few,' he 
said. ' They call us Moravians here ; but 
down in the department of Gard, where 
there are also a good number, they are 
called Derbists, after an English pastor.' 

I began to understand that I was figur- 
ing, in questionable taste, as a member of 
some sect to me unknown ; but I was more 
pleased with the pleasure of my companion 
than embarrassed by my own equivocal 
position. Indeed I can see no dishonesty 
in not avowing a difference ; and especially 
in these high matters, where we have all a 
sufficient assurance that, whoever may be 
in the wrong, we ourselves are not com- 
pletely in the right. The truth is much 
talked about ; but this old man in a brown 
nightcap showed himself so simple, sweet, 
and friendly that I am not unwilling to 
profess myself his convert. He was, as a 
matter of fact, a Plymouth Brother. Of 
what that involves in the way of doctrine 
I have no idea nor the time to inform 



164 The Country of the Camzsards 

myself; but I know right well that we are 
all embarked upon a troublesome world, 
the children of one Father, striving in many- 
essential points to do and to become the 
same. And although it was somewhat in 
a mistake that he shook hands with me 
so often and showed himself so ready to 
receive my words, that was a mistake of 
the truth-finding sort. For charity begins 
blindfold ; and only through a series of 
similar misapprehensions rises at length 
into a settled principle of love and pa- 
tience, and a firm belief in all our fellow- 
men. If I deceived this good old man, in 
the like manner I would willingly go on to 
deceive others. And if ever at length, out 
of our separate and sad ways, we should 
all come together into one common house, 
I have a hope, to which I cling dearly, 
that my mountain Plymouth Brother will 
hasten to shake hands with me again. 

Thus, talking like Christian and Faithful 
by the way, he and I came down upon a 
hamlet by the Tarn. It was but a humble 
place, called La Vernede, with less than a 



In the Valley of the Tarn 165 

dozen houses, and a Protestant chapel on 
a knoll. Here he dwelt ; and here, at the 
inn, I ordered my breakfast. The inn was 
kept by an agreeable young man, a stone- 
breaker on the road, and his sister, a pretty 
and engaging girl. The village school- 
master dropped in to speak with the stran- 
ger. And these were all Protestants — a 
fact which pleased me more than I should 
have expected ; and, what pleased me still 
more, they seemed all upright and simple 
people. The Plymouth Brother hung round 
me with a sort of yearning interest, and 
returned at least thrice to make sure I was 
enjoying my meal. His behaviour touched 
me deeply at the time, and even now 
moves me in recollection. He feared to 
intrude, but he would not willingly forego 
one moment of my society ; and he seemed 
never weary of shaking me by the hand. 

When all the rest had drifted off to their 
day's work, I sat for near half an hour with 
the young mistress of the house, who talked 
pleasantly over her seam of the chestnut 
harvest, and the beauties of the Tarn, and 



1 66 The Country of the Camisards 

old family affections, broken up when young 
folk go from home, yet still subsisting. 
Hers, I am sure, was a sweet nature, with 
a country plainness and much delicacy un- 
derneath ; and he who takes her to his heart 
will doubtless be a fortunate young man. 
The valley below La Vernede pleased me 
more and more as I went forward. Now 
the hills approached from either hand, naked 
and crumbling, and walled in the river be- 
tween cliffs; and now the valley widened 
and became green. The road led me past 
the old castle of Miral on a steep ; past a 
battlemented monastery, long since broken 
up and turned into a church and parson- 
age ; and past a cluster of black roofs, the 
village of Cocures, sitting among vineyards 
and meadows and orchards thick with red 
apples, and where, along the highway, they 
were knocking down walnuts from the 
roadside trees, and gathering them in sacks 
and baskets. The hills, however much the 
vale might open, were still tall and bare, 
with cliffy battlements and here and there 
a pointed summit ; and the Tarn still rat- 



In the Valley of the Tarn 167 

tied through the stones with a mountain 
noise. I had been led, by bagmen of a 
picturesque turn of mind, to expect a hor- 
rific country after the heart of Byron ; but 
to my Scotch eyes it seemed smiling and 
plentiful, as the weather still gave an 
impression of high summer to my Scotch 
body ; although the chestnuts were already 
picked out by the autumn, and the poplars, 
that here began to mingle with them, had 
turned into pale gold against the approach 
of winter. 

There was something in this landscape, 
smiling although wild, that explained to me 
the spirit of the Southern Covenanters. 
Those who took to the hills for conscience' 
sake in Scotland had all gloomy and bedev- 
illed thoughts ; for once that they received 
God's comfort they would be twice engaged 
with Satan ; but the Camisards had only 
bright and supporting visions. They dealt 
much more in blood, both given and taken ; 
yet I find no obsession of the Evil One in 
their records. With a light conscience, 
they pursued their life in these rough times 



1 68 The Country of the Camisards 

and circumstances. The soul of Seguier, 
let us not forget, was like a garden. They 
knew they were on God's side, with a 
knowledge that has no parallel among the 
Scots ; for the Scots, although they might 
be certain of the cause, could never rest 
confident of the person. 

' We flew,' says one old Camisard, ' when 
we heard the sound of psalm-singing, we 
flew as if with wings. We felt within us 
an animating ardour, a transporting desire. 
The feeling cannot be expressed in words. 
It is a thing that must have been experi- 
enced to be understood. However weary 
we might be, we thought no more of our 
weariness and grew light, so soon as the 
psalms fell upon our ears.' 

The valley of the Tarn and the people 
whom I met at La Vernede not only 
explain to me this passage, but the twenty 
years of suffering which those, who were so 
stiff and so bloody when once they betook 
themselves to war, endured with the meek- 
ness of children and the constancy of saints 
and peasants. 



FLORAC 

/^N a branch of the Tarn stands Florae, 
the seat of a subprefecture, with an 
old castle, an alley of planes, many quaint 
street-corners, and a live fountain welling 
from the hill. It is notable, besides, for 
handsome women, and as one of the two 
capitals, Alais being the other, of the coun- 
try of the Camisards. 

The landlord of the inn took me, after I 
had eaten, to an adjoining cafe", where I, or 
rather my journey, became the topic of the 
afternoon. Every one had some suggest 
tion for my guidance ; and the subprefec- 
torial map was fetched from the subpre- 
fecture itself, and much thumbed among 
coffee-cups and glasses of liqueur. Most of 
these kind advisers were Protestant, though 
I observed that Protestant and Catholic 
intermingled in a very easy manner ; and it 
surprised me to see what a lively memory 



17° The Country of the Camisards 

still subsisted of the religious war. Among 
the hills of the south-west, by Mauchline, 
Cumnock, or Carsphairn, in isolated farms 
or in the manse, serious Presbyterian people 
still recall the days of the great persecu- 
tion, and the graves of local martyrs are 
still piously regarded. But in towns and 
among the so-called better classes, I fear 
that these' old doings have become an idle 
tale. If you met a mixed company in the 
King's Arms at Wtgton, it is not likely that 
the talk would run on Covenanters. Nay, 
at Muirkirk of Glenluce, I found the bea- 
dle's wife had not so much as heard of 
Prophet Peden. But these CeVenols were 
proud of their ancestors in quite another 
sense ; the war was their chosen topic ; its 
exploits were their own patent of nobility ; 
and where a man or a race has had but one 
adventure, and that heroic, we must expect 
and pardon some prolixity of reference. 
They told me the country was still full of 
legends hitherto uncollected ; I heard from 
them about Cavalier s descendants — not 
direct descendants, be it understood, but 



Florae 171 

only cousins or nephews — who were still 
prosperous people in the scene of the boy- 
general's exploits ; and one farmer had seen 
the bones of old combatants dug up into 
the air of an afternoon in the nineteenth 
century, in a field where the ancestors had 
fought, and the great-grandchildren were 
peaceably ditching. 

Later in the day one of the Protestant 
pastors was so good as to visit me : a young 
man, intelligent and polite, with whom I 
passed an hour or two in talk. Florae, he 
told me, is part Protestant, part Catholic ; 
and the difference in religion is usually 
doubled by a difference in politics. You 
may judge of my surprise, coming as I did 
from such a babbling purgatorial Poland of 
a place as Monastier, when I learned that 
the population lived together on very quiet 
terms ; and there was even an exchange 
of hospitalities between households thus 
doubly separated. Black Camisard and 
White Camisard, militiaman and Miquelet 
and dragoon, Protestant prophet and Cath- 
olic cadet of the White Cross, they had all 



17 2 The Country of the Camisards 

been sabreing and shooting, burning, pil- 
laging, and murdering, their hearts hot with 
indignant passion ; and here, after a hun- 
dred and seventy years, Protestant is still 
Protestant, Catholic still Catholic, in mu- 
tual toleration and mild amity of life. But 
the race of man, like that indomitable 
nature whence it sprang, has medicating 
virtues of its own ; the years and seasons 
bring various harvests ; the sun returns 
after the rain ; and mankind outlives saccu- 
lar animosities, as a single man awakens 
from the passions of a day. We judge our 
ancestors from a more divine position ; and 
the dust being a little laid with several 
centuries, we can see both sides adorned 
with human virtues and fighting with a 
show of right. 

I have never thought it easy to be just, 
and find it daily even harder than I 
thought. I own I met these Protestants 
with delight and a sense of coming home. 
I was accustomed to speak their language, 
in another and deeper sense of the word 
than that which distinguishes between 



Florae 173 

French and English ; for the true babel 
is a divergence upon morals. And hence 
I could hold more free communication 
with the Protestants, and judge them more 
justly, than the Catholics. Father Apolli- 
naris may pair off with my mountain Plym- 
outh Brother as two guileless and devout 
old men ; yet I ask myself if I had as 
ready a feeling for the virtues of the 
Trappist ; or had I been a Catholic, if I 
should have felt so warmly to the dissenter 
of La Vernede. With the first I was on 
terms of mere forbearance ; but with the 
other, although only on a misunderstanding 
and by keeping on selected points, it was 
still possible to hold converse and exchange 
some honest thoughts. In this world of 
imperfection we gladly welcome even 
partial intimacies. And if we find but 
one to whom we can speak out of our 
heart freely, with whom we can walk in 
love and simplicity without dissimulation, 
we have no ground of quarrel with the 
world or God. 



IN THE VALLEY OF THE MIMENTE 

/^vN Tuesday, \st October •, we left Florae 
late in the afternoon, a tired donkey 
and tired donkey-driver. A little way up 
the Tarnon, a covered bridge of wood 
introduced us into the valley of the Mi- 
mente. Steep rocky red mountains over- 
hung the stream ; great oaks and chestnuts 
grew upon the slopes or in stony terraces ; 
here and there was a red field of millet or 
a few apple-trees studded with red apples ; 
and the road passed hard by two black 
hamlets, one with an old castle atop to 
please the heart of the tourist. 

It was difficult here again to find a spot 
fit for my encampment. Even under the 
oaks and chestnuts the ground had not 
only a very rapid slope, but was heaped 
with loose stones ; and where there was no 
timber the hills descended to the stream in 
a red precipice tufted with heather. The 



In the Valley of the Mimente 175 

sun had left the highest peak in front of 
me, and the valley was full of the lowing 
sound of herdsmen's horns as they recalled 
the flocks into the stable, when I spied 
a bight of meadow some way below the 
roadway in an angle of the river. Thither 
I descended, and, tying Modestine provision- 
ally to a tree, proceeded to investigate 
the neighbourhood. A gray pearly even- 
ing shadow filled the glen ; objects at a 
little distance grew indistinct and melted 
bafflingly into each other ; and the dark- 
ness was rising steadily like an exhalation. 
I approached a great oak which grew in 
the meadow, hard by the river's brink ; 
when to my disgust the voices of children 
fell upon my ear, and I beheld a house 
round the angle on the other bank. I had 
half a mind to pack and begone again, but 
the growing darkness moved me to remain. 
I had only to make no noise until the 
night was fairly come, and trust to the 
dawn to call me early in the morning. 
But it was hard to be annoyed by neigh- 
bours in such a great hotel. 



176 The Country of the Camisards 

A hollow underneath the oak was my 
bed. Before I had fed Modestine and ar- 
ranged my sack, three stars were already 
brightly shining, and the others were be- 
ginning dimly to appear. I slipped down 
to the river, which looked very black 
among its rocks, to fill my can ; and dined 
with a good appetite in the dark, for I 
scrupled to light a lantern while so near 
a house. The moon, which I had seen, a 
pallid crescent, all afternoon, faintly illu- 
minated the summit of the hills, but not a 
ray fell into the bottom of the glen where 
I was lying. The oak rose before me like 
a pillar of darkness ; and overhead the 
heartsome stars were set in the face of the 
night. No one knows the stars who has 
not slept, as the French happily put it, a 
la belle e'toile. He may know all their 
names and distances and magnitudes, and 
yet be ignorant of what alone concerns 
mankind, their serene and gladsome influ- 
ence on the mind. The greater part of 
poetry is about the stars ; and very justly, 
for they are themselves the most classical 



In the Valley of the Mimente *77 

of poets. These same far-away worlds, 
sprinkled like tapers or shaken together like 
a diamond dust upon the sky, had looked 
not otherwise to Roland or Cavalier, when, 
in the words of the latter, they had ' no 
other tent but the sky, and no other bed 
than my mother earth.' 

All night a strong wind blew up the val- 
ley, and the acorns fell pattering over me 
from the oak. Yet, on this first night of 
October, the air was as mild as May, and I 
slept with the fur thrown back. 

I was much disturbed by the barking of 
a dog, an animal that I fear more than any 
wolf. A dog is vastly braver, and is be- 
sides supported by the sense of duty. If 
you kill a wolf, you meet with encourage- 
ment and praise ; but if you kill a dog, the 
sacred rights of property and the domestic 
affections come clamouring round you for 
redress. At the end of a fagging day, the 
sharp cruel note of a dog's bark is in itself 
a keen annoyance; and to a tramp like 
myself, he represents the sedentary and 
respectable world in its most hostile form. 



178 The Country of the Camisards 

There is something of the clergyman or the 
lawyer about this engaging animal ; and if 
he were not amenable to stones, the boldest 
man would shrink from travelling afoot. I 
respect dogs much in the domestic circle ; 
but on the highway or sleeping a-field, I 
both detest and fear them. 

I was wakened next morning ( Wednesday, 
October 2d) by the same dog — for I knew 
his bark — making a charge down the bank, 
and then, seeing me sit up, retreating again 
with great alacrity. The stars were not 
yet quite extinguished. The heaven was 
of that enchanting mild gray-blue of the 
early morn. A still clear light began to 
fall, and the trees on the hillside were out- 
lined sharply against the sky. The wind 
had veered more to the north, and no longer 
reached me in the glen ; but as I was going 
on with my preparations, it drove a white 
cloud very swiftly over the hill-top ; and 
looking up, I was surprised to see the cloud 
dyed with gold. In these high regions of 
the air, the sun was already shining as at 
noon. If only the clouds travelled high 



In the Valley of the Mimente *79 

enough, we should see the same thing all 
night long. For it is always daylight in 
the fields of space. 

As I began to go up the valley, a draught 
of wind came down it out of the seat of 
the sunrise, although the clouds continued 
to run overhead in an almost contrary di- 
rection. A few steps farther, and I saw a 
whole hillside gilded with the sun ; and still 
a little beyond, between two peaks, a centre 
of dazzling brilliancy appeared floating in 
the sky, and I was once more face to face 
with the big bonfire that occupies the kernel 
of our system. 

I met but one human being that fore- 
noon, a dark military-looking wayfarer, who 
carried a gamebag on a baldric ; but he 
made a remark that seems worthy of record. 
For when I asked him if he were Protestant 
or Catholic — 

* O,' said he, ' I make no shame of my 
religion. I am a Catholic' 

He made no shame of it ! The phrase is 
a piece of natural statistics ; for it is the 
language of one in a minority. I thought 



180 The Country of the Camisards 

with a smile of Bavile and his dragoon^ 
and how you may ride rough-shod over a 
religion for a century, and leave it only the 
more lively for the friction. Ireland is still 
Catholic ; the Cevennes still Protestant. It 
is not a basketful of law-papers, nor the 
hoofs and pistol-butts of a regiment of 
horse, that can change one tittle of a plough- 
man's thoughts. Outdoor rustic people 
have not many ideas, but such as they have 
are hardy plants and thrive flourishingly in 
persecution. One who has grown a long 
while in the sweat of laborious noons, and 
under the stars at night, a frequenter of 
hills and forests, an old honest countryman, 
has, in the end, a sense of communion with 
the powers of the universe, and amicable 
relations towards his God. Like my moun- 
tain Plymouth Brother, he knows the Lord. 
His religion does not repose upon a choice 
of logic ; it is the poetry of the man's 
experience, the philosophy of the history 
of his life. God, like a great power, like 
a great shining sun, has appeared to this 
simple fellow in the course of years, and 



In the Valley of the Mimente 181 

become the ground and essence of his least 
reflections ; and you may change creeds 
and dogmas by authority, or proclaim a 
new religion with the sound of trumpets, if 
you will ; but here is a man who has his 
own thoughts, and will stubbornly adhere 
to them in good and evil. He is a Cath- 
olic, a Protestant, or a Plymouth Brother, 
in the same indefeasible sense that a man 
is not a woman, or a woman not a man. 
For he could not vary from his faith, un- 
less he could eradicate all memory of the 
past, and, in a strict and not a conventional 
meaning, change his mind. 



THE HEART OF THE COUNTRY 

T WAS now drawing near to Cassagnas, a 
cluster of black roofs upon the hillside, 
in this wild valley, among chestnut gardens, 
and looked upon in the clear air by many 
rocky peaks. The road along the Mimente 
is yet new, nor have the mountaineers 
recovered their surprise when the first 
cart arrived at Cassagnas. But although 
it lay thus apart from the current of men's 
business, this hamlet had already made a 
figure in the history of France. Hard by, 
in caverns of the mountain, was one of the 
five arsenals of the Camisards ; where they 
laid up clothes and corn and arms against 
necessity, forged bayonets and sabres, and 
made themselves gunpowder with willow 
charcoal and saltpetre boiled in kettles. 
To the same caves, amid this multifarious 
industry, the sick and wounded were 
brought up to heal; and there they were 



The Heart of the Country 183 

visited by the two surgeons, Chabrier and 
Tavan, and secretly nursed by women of 
the neighbourhood. 

Of the five legions into which the Cami- 
sards were divided, it was the oldest and 
the most obscure that had its magazines 
by Cassagnas. This was the band of Spirit 
Se'guier; men who had joined their voices 
with his in the 68th Psalm as they marched 
down by night on the archpriest of the 
Cevennes. Seguier, promoted to heaven, 
was succeeded by Salomon Couderc, whom 
Cavalier treats in his memoirs as chaplain- 
general to the whole army of the Cami- 
sards. He was a prophet ; a great reader 
of the heart, who admitted people to the 
sacrament or refused them by ' intentively 
viewing every man ' between the eyes ; and 
had the most of the Scriptures off by rote. 
And this was surely happy ; since in a 
surprise in August 1703, he lost his mule, 
his portfolios, and his Bible. It is only 
strange that they were not surprised more 
often and more effectually; for this legion 
of Cassagnas was truly patriarchal in its 



i §4 The Country of the Camisards 

theory of war, and camped without sentries, 
leaving that duty to the angels of the God 
for whom they fought. This is a token, 
not only of their faith, but of the trackless 
country where they harboured. M. de Ca- 
ladon, taking a stroll one fine day, walked 
without warning into their midst, as he 
might have walked into ' a flock of sheep 
in a plain,' and found some asleep and 
some awake and psalm-singing. A traitor 
had need of no recommendation to insinu- 
ate himself among their ranks, beyond ' his 
faculty of singing psalms ; ' and even the 
prophet Salomon ' took him into a particu- 
lar friendship.' Thus, among their intri- 
cate hills, the rustic troop subsisted ; and 
history can attribute few exploits to them 
but sacraments and ecstasies. 

People of this tough and simple stock 
will not, as I have just been saying, prove 
variable in religion ; nor will they get 
nearer to apostasy than a mere external 
conformity like that of Naaman in the 
house of Rimrnon. When Louis XVI. , in 
the words of the edict, ' convinced by the 



The Heart of the Country 185 

uselessness of a century of persecutions, 
and rather from necessity than sympathy,' 
granted at last a royal grace of toleration, 
Cassagnas was still Protestant ; and to a 
man, it is so to this day. There is, indeed, 
one family that is not Protestant, but 
neither is it Catholic. It is that of a Cath- 
olic curi in revolt, who has taken to his 
bosom a schoolmistress. And his conduct, 
it's worth noting, is disapproved by the 
Protestant villagers. 

* It is a bad idea for a man,' said one, ' to 
go back from his engagements.' 

The villagers whom I saw seemed intelli- 
gent after a countrified fashion, and were 
all plain and dignified in manner. As a 
Protestant myself, I was well looked upon, 
and my acquaintance with history gained 
me farther respect. For we had something 
not unlike a religious controversy at table, 
a gendarme and a merchant with whom I 
dined being both strangers to the place and 
Catholics. The young men of the house 
stood round and supported me ; and the 
whole discussion was tolerantly conducted, 



1 86 The Country of the Camisards 

and surprised a man brought up among 
the infinitesimal and contentious differences 
of Scotland. The merchant, indeed, grew 
a little warm, and was far less pleased than 
some others with my historical acquire- 
ments. But the gendarme was mighty 
easy over it all. 

' It's a bad idea for a man to change/ 
said he ; and the remark was generally 
applauded. 

That was not the opinion of the priest 
and soldier at our Lady of the Snows, But 
this is a different race ; and perhaps the 
same great-heartedness that upheld them to 
resist, now enables them to differ in a kind 
spirit. For courage respects courage ; but 
where a faith has been trodden out, we 
may look for a mean and narrow popula- 
tion. The true work of Bruce and Wallace 
was the union of the nations ; not that 
they should stand apart a while longer, 
skirmishing upon their borders ; but that, 
when the time came, they might unite with 
self-respect. 

The merchant was much interested in 



The Heart of the Country 187 

my journey, and thought it dangerous to 
sleep a-field. 

'There are the wolves,' said he; 'and 
then it is known you are an Englishman. 
The English have always long purses, and 
it might very well enter into some one's 
head to deal you an ill blow some night.' 

I told him I was not much afraid of such 
accidents; and at any rate judged it unwise 
to dwell upon alarms or consider small 
perils in the arrangement of life. Life 
itself, I submitted, was a far too risky busi- 
ness as a whole to make each additional 
particular of danger worth regard. ' Some- 
thing,' said I, ' might burst in your inside 
any day of the week, and there would be 
an end of you, if you were locked into 
your room with three turns of the key.' 

' Cependant] said he, ' coucher dehors / ' 

'God,' said I, 'is everywhere.' 

' Cependant, coucher dehors ! ' he repeated, 
and his voice was eloquent of terror. 

He was the only person, in all my voy- 
age, who saw anything hardy in so simple 
a proceeding ; although many considered 



1 88 The Country of the Camisards 

it superfluous. Only one, on the other 
hand, professed much delight in the idea ; 
and that was my Plymouth Brother, who 
cried out, when I told him I sometimes 
preferred sleeping under the stars to a 
close and noisy alehouse, ' Now I see that 
you know the Lord ! ' 

The merchant asked me for one of my 
cards as I was leaving, for he said I should 
be something to talk of in the future, and 
desired me to make a note of his request 
and reason ; a desire with which I have 
thus complied. 

A little after two I struck across the 
Mimente, and took a rugged path south- 
ward up a hillside covered with loose 
stones and tufts of heather. At the top, 
as is the habit of the country, the path 
disappeared ; and I left my she-ass munch- 
ing heather, and went forward alone to 
seek a road. 

I was now on the separation of two vast 
watersheds ; behind me all the streams 
were bound for the Garonne and the 
Western Ocean ; before me was the basin 



The Heart of the Country 189 

of the Rhone, Hence, as from the Lozere, 
you can see in clear weather the shining of 
the Gulf of Lyons ; and perhaps from here 
the soldiers of Salomon may have watched 
for the topsails of Sir Cloudesley Shovel, 
and the long-promised aid from England. 
You may take this ridge as lying in the 
heart of the country of the Camisards ; 
four of the five legions camped all round 
it and almost within view — Salomon and 
Joani to the north, Castanet and Roland to 
the south ; and when Julien had finished 
his famous work, the devastation of the 
High Cevennes, which lasted all through 
October and November 1703, and during 
which four hundred and sixty villages and 
hamlets were, with fire and pickaxe, utterly 
subverted, a man standing on this emi- 
nence would have looked forth upon a 
silent, smokeless, and dispeopled land. 
Time and man's activity have now repaired 
these ruins ; Cassagnas is once more roofed 
and sending up domestic smoke; and in 
the chestnut gardens, in low and leafy 
corners, many a prosperous farmer returns, 



190 The Country of the Camisards 

when the day's work is done, to his children 
and bright hearth. And still it was per- 
haps the wildest view of all my journey. 
Peak upon peak, chain upon chain of hills 
ran surging southward, channelled and 
sculptured by the winter streams, feathered 
from head to foot with chestnuts, and here 
and there breaking out into a coronal of 
cliffs. The sun, which was still far from 
setting, sent a drift of misty gold across 
the hill-tops, but the valleys were already 
plunged in a profound and quiet shadow. 
A very old shepherd, hobbling on a pair 
of sticks, and wearing a black cap of liberty, 
as if in honour of his nearness to the grave, 
directed me to the road for St. Germain de 
Calberte. There was something solemn in 
the isolation of this infirm and ancient 
creature. Where he dwelt, how he got 
upon this high ridge, or how he proposed 
to get down again, were more than I could 
fancy Not far off upon my right was the 
famous Plan de Font Morte, where Poul 
with his Armenian sabre slashed down the 
Camisards of Seguier. This, methought, 



The Heart of the Country 191 

might be some Rip van Winkle of the war, 
who had lost his comrades, fleeing before 
Poul y and wandered ever since upon the 
mountains. It might be news to him that 
Cavalier had surrendered, or Roland had 
fallen fighting with his back against an 
olive. And while I was thus working on 
my fancy, I heard him hailing in broken 
tones, and saw him waving me to come 
back with one of his two sticks. I had 
already got some way past him ; but, 
leaving Modestine once more, retraced 
my steps. 

Alas, it was a very commonplace affair. 
The old gentleman had forgot to ask the 
pedlar what he sold, and wished to remedy 
this neglect. 

I told him sternly, 'Nothing.' 

'Nothing?' cried he. 

I repeated ' Nothing,' and made off. 

It's odd to think of, but perhaps I thus 
became as inexplicable to the old man as 
he had been to me. 

The road lay under chestnuts, and though 
I saw a hamlet or two below me in the 



19 2 The Country of the Camisards 

vale, and many lone houses of the chest- 
nut farmers, it was a very solitary march 
all afternoon ; and the evening began early 
underneath the trees. But I heard the 
voice of a woman singing some sad, old, 
endless ballad not far off. It seemed to be 
about love and a bel arnoureux, her hand- 
some sweetheart ; and I wished I could 
have taken up the strain and answered her, 
as I went on upon my invisible woodland 
way, weaving, like Pippa in the poem, 
my own thoughts with hers. What could 
I have told her ? Little enough ; and yet 
all the heart requires. How the world 
gives and takes away, and brings sweet- 
hearts near, only to separate them again 
into distant and strange lands ; but to love 
is the great amulet which makes the world 
a garden ; and ' hope, which comes to all,' 
outwears the accidents of life, and reaches 
with tremulous hand beyond the grave 
and death. Easy to say : yea, but also, 
by God's mercy, both easy and grateful to 
believe ! 

We struck at last into a wide white high- 



The Heart of the Country 193 

road carpeted with noiseless dust. The 
night had come ; the moon had been shin- 
ing for a long while upon the opposite 
mountain ; when on turning a corner my 
donkey and I issued ourselves into her 
light. I had emptied out my brandy at 
Florae, for I could bear the stuff no longer, 
and replaced it with some generous and 
scented Volnay ; and now I drank to the 
moon's sacred majesty upon the road. It 
was but a couple of mouthfuls ; yet I be- 
came thenceforth unconscious of my limbs, 
and my blood flowed with luxury. Even 
Modestine was inspired by this purified noc- 
turnal sunshine, and bestirred her little 
hoofs as to a livelier measure. The road 
wound and descended swiftly among masses 
of chestnuts. Hot dust rose from our feet 
and flowed away. Our two shadows — mine 
deformed with the knapsack, hers comically 
bestridden by the pack — now lay before us 
clearly outlined on the road, and now, as 
we turned a corner, went off into the ghost- 
ly distance, and sailed along the mountain 
like clouds. From time to time a warm 
13 



194 The Country of the Camisards 

wind rustled down the valley, and set all 
the chestnuts dangling their bunches of 
foliage and fruit ; the ear was filled with 
whispering music, and the shadows danced 
in tune. And next moment the breeze had 
gone by, and in all the valley nothing 
moved except our travelling feet. On the 
opposite slope, the monstrous ribs and 
gullies of the mountain were faintly de- 
signed in the moonshine ; and high over- 
head, in some lone house, there burned one 
lighted window, one square spark of red in 
the huge field of sad nocturnal colouring. 

At a certain point, as I went downward, 
turning many acute angles, the moon disap- 
peared behind the hill ; and I pursued my 
way in great darkness, until another turn- 
ing shot me without preparation into St. 
Germain de Calberte. The place was asleep 
and silent, and buried in opaque night. 
Only from a single open door, some lamp- 
light escaped upon the road to show me 
that I was come among men's habitations. 
The two last gossips of the evening, still 
talking by a garden wall, directed me to 



The Heart of the Country 195 

the inn. The landlady was getting her 
chicks to bed ; the fire was already out, 
and had, not without grumbling, to be re- 
kindled ; hait an hour latei v and I must 
have gone supperless to roost. 



THE LAST DAY 

Y\ 7 HEN I awoke (Thursday, 2d October), 
and, hearing a great flourishing of 
cocks and chuckling of contented hens, 
betook me to the window of the clean and 
comfortable room where I had slept the 
night, I looked forth on a sunshiny morn- 
ing in a deep vale of chestnut gardens. 
It was still early, and the cockcrows, and 
the slanting lights, and the long shadows 
encouraged me to be out and look round 
me. 

St. Germain de Calberte is a great parish 
nine leagues round about. At the period 
of the wars, and immediately before the 
devastation, it was inhabited by two hun- 
dred and seventy-five families, of which 
only nine were Catholic ; and it took the 
cure" seventeen September days to go from 
house to house on horseback for a census. 
But the place itself, although capital of a 



The Last Day 197 

canton, is scarce larger than a hamlet. It 
lies terraced across a steep slope in the 
midst of mighty chestnuts. The Protes- 
tant chapel stands below upon a shoulder ; 
in the midst of the town is the quaint old 
Catholic church. 

It was here that poor Du Ckayla, the 
Christian martyr, kept his library and held 
a court of missionaries ; here he had built 
his tomb, thinking to lie among a grateful 
population whom he had redeemed from 
error; and hither on the morrow of his 
death they brought the body, pierced with 
two-and-fifty wounds, to be interred. Clad 
in his priestly robes, he was laid out in 
state in the church. The curd, taking 
his text from Second Samuel, twentieth 
chapter and twelfth verse, 'And Amasa 
wallowed in his blood in the highway,' 
preached a rousing sermon, and exhorted 
his brethren to die each at his post, like 
their unhappy and illustrious superior. In 
the midst of this eloquence there came a 
breeze that Spirit Siguier was near at hand; 
and behold ! all the assembly took to their 



198 The Country of the Camisards 

horses' heels, some east, some west, and 
the curd himself as far as Alais. 

Strange was the position of this little 
Catholic metropolis, a thimbleful of Rome, 
in such a wild and contrary neighbourhood. 
On the one hand, the legion of Salomon 
overlooked it from Cassagnas ; on the 
other, it was cut off from assistance by 
the legion of Roland at Mialet. The curt, 
Louvrelenil, although he took a panic at 
the archpriest's funeral, and so hurriedly 
decamped to Alais, stood well by his iso- 
lated pulpit, and thence uttered fulmina- 
tions against the crimes of the Protestants. 
Salomon besieged the village for an hour 
and a half, but was beat back. The militia- 
men, on guard before the cure's door, could 
be heard, in the black hours, singing Protes- 
tant psalms and holding friendly talk with 
the insurgents. And in the morning, al- 
though not a shot had been fired, there 
would not be a round of powder in their 
flasks. Where was it gone? All handed 
over to the Camisards for a consideration. 
Untrusty guardians for an isolated priest ! 



The Last Day 199 

That these continual stirs were once 
busy in St. Germain de Calberte, the im- 
agination with difficulty receives ; all is 
now so quiet, the pulse of human life now 
beats so low and still in this hamlet of the 
mountains. Boys followed me a great way 
off, like a timid sort of lion-hunters ; and 
people turned round to have a second look, 
or came out of their houses, as I went by. 
My passage was the first event, you would 
have fancied, since the Camisards. There 
was nothing rude or forward in this obser- 
vation ; it was but a pleased and wonder- 
ing scrutiny, like that of oxen or the human 
infant ; yet it wearied my spirits, and soon 
drove me from the street. 

I took refuge on the terraces, which are 
here greenly carpeted with sward, and tried 
to imitate with a pencil the inimitable atti- 
tudes of the chestnuts as they bear up their 
canopy of leaves. Ever and again a little 
wind went by, and the nuts dropped all 
around me, with a light and dull sound, 
upon the sward. The noise was as of a 
thin fall of great hailstones ; but there 



f 

200 The Country of the Camisards 

went with it a cheerful human sentiment 
of an approaching harvest and farmers 
rejoicing in their gains. Looking up, I 
could see the brown nut peering through 
the husk, which was already gaping ; and 
between the stems the eye embraced an 
amphitheatre of hill, sunlit and green with 
leaves. 

I have not often enjoyed a place more 
deeply. I moved in an atmosphere of 
pleasure, and felt light and quiet and con- 
tent. But perhaps it was not the place 
alone that so disposed my spirit. Perhaps 
some one was thinking of me in another 
country ; or perhaps some thought of my 
own had come and gone unnoticed, and 
yet done me good. For some thoughts, 
which sure would be the most beautiful, 
vanish before we can rightly scan their 
features ; as though a god, travelling by 
our green highways, should but ope the 
door, give one smiling look into the house, 
and go again for ever. Was it Apollo, or 
Mercury, or Love with folded wings? 
Who shall say? But we go the lighter 



The Last Day 201 

about our business, and feel peace and 
pleasure in our hearts. 

I dined with a pair of Catholics. They 
agreed in the condemnation of a young 
man, a Catholic, who had married a Protes- 
tant girl and gone over to the religion of 
his wife. A Protestant born they could un- 
derstand and respect ; indeed, they seemed 
to be of the mind of an old Catholic 
woman, who told me that same day there 
was no difference between the two sects, 
save that ' wrong was more wrong for the 
Catholic/ who had more light and guid- 
ance ; but this of a man's desertion filled 
them with contempt. 

1 It is a bad idea for a man to change/ 
said one. 

It may have been accidental, but you 
see how this phrase pursued me ; and for 
myself, I believe it is the current philoso- 
phy in these parts. I have some difficulty 
in imagining a better. It's not only a 
great flight of confidence for a man to 
change his creed and go out of his family 
for heaven's sake ; but the odds are — nay, 



202 The Country of the Camisards 

and the hope is — that, with all this great 
transition in the eyes of man, he has not 
changed himself a hairsbreadth to the eyes 
of God. Honour to those who do so, for 
the wrench is sore. But it argues some- 
thing narrow, whether of strength or weak- 
ness, whether of the prophet or the fool, in 
those who can take a sufficient interest in 
such infinitesimal and human operations, 
or who can quit a friendship for a doubtful 
process of the mind. And I think I should 
not leave my old creed for another, chang- 
ing only words for other words ; but by 
some brave reading, embrace it in spirit 
and truth, and find wrong as wrong for me 
as for the best of other communions. 

The phylloxera was in the neighbour- 
hood ; and instead of wine we drank at 
dinner a more economical juice of the grape 
— La Parisienne, they call it. It is made 
by putting the fruit whole into a cask with 
water ; one by one the berries ferment and 
burst ; what is drunk during the day is 
supplied at night in water ; so, with ever 
another pitcher from the well, and ever 



The Last Day 203 

another grape exploding and giving out its 
strength, one cask of Parisienne may last a 
family till spring. It is, as the reader will 
anticipate, a feeble beverage, but very 
pleasant to the taste. 

What with dinner and coffee, it was long 
past three before I left St. Germain de 
Calberte. I went down beside the Gardon 
of Mialet, a great glaring watercourse 
devoid of water, and through St. Etienne de 
Valle'e Francaise, or Val Francesque, as they 
used to call it ; and towards evening began 
to ascend the hill of St. Pierre. It was a 
long and steep ascent. Behind me an 
empty carriage returning to St. Jean du 
Gard kept hard upon my tracks, and near 
the summit overtook me. The driver, like 
the rest of the world, was sure I was a 
pedlar ; but, unlike others, he was sure of 
what I had to sell. He had noticed the 
blue wool which hung out of my pack at 
either end ; and from this he had decided, 
beyond my power to alter his decision, that 
I dealt in blue-wool collars, such as deco- 
rate the neck of the French draught-horse. 



204 The Country of the Camisards 

I had hurried to the topmost powers of 
Modestine, for I dearly desired to see the 
view upon the other side before the day 
had faded. But it was night when I 
reached the summit ; the moon was riding 
high and clear ; and only a few gray streaks 
of twilight lingered in the west. A yawn- 
ing valley, gulfed in blackness, lay like a 
hole in created nature at my feet ; but the 
outline of the hills was sharp against the 
sky„ There was Mount Aigoal, the strong- 
hold of Castanet. And Castanet, not only 
as an active undertaking leader, deserves 
some mention among Camisards ; for there 
is a spray of rose among his laurel ; and 
he showed how, even in a public tragedy, 
love will have its way. In the high tide of 
war he married, in his mountain citadel, 
a young and pretty lass called Mariette. 
There were great rejoicings ; and the bride- 
groom released five-and-twenty prisoners in 
honour of the glad event. Seven months 
afterwards Mariette, the Princess of the 
Cevennes, as they called her in derision, fell 
into the hands of the authorities, where it 



The Last Day 205 

was like to have gone hard with her. But 
Castanet was a man of execution, and loved 
his wife. He fell on Valleraugue, and got 
a lady there for a hostage ; and for the 
first and last time in that war there was 
an exchange of prisoners. Their daughter, 
pledge of some starry night upon Mount 
Aigoal, has left descendants to this day. 

Modestine and I — it was our last meal 
together — had a snack upon the top of St. 
Pierre, I on a heap of stones, she standing 
by me in the moonlight and decorously 
eating bread out of my hand. The poor 
brute would eat more heartily in this man- 
ner ; for she had a sort of affection for me, 
which I was soon to betray. 

It was a long descent upon St. Jean du 
Gard> and we met no one but a carter, 
visible afar off by the glint of the moon on 
his extinguished lantern. 

Before ten o'clock we had got in and 
were at supper ; fifteen miles and a stiff 
hill in little beyond six hours ! 



FAREWELL, MODESTINE 

f^N examination, on the morning of 
October $d, Modestine was pronounced 
unfit for travel. She would need at least 
two days' repose according to the ostler ; 
but I was now eager to reach Alais for my 
letters ; and, being in a civilised country of 
stage-coaches, I determined to sell my lady- 
friend and be off by the diligence that 
afternoon. Our yesterday's march, with 
the testimony of the driver who had 
pursued us up the long hill of St. Pierre, 
spread a favourable notion of my donkey's 
capabilities. Intending purchasers were 
aware of an unrivalled opportunity. Be- 
fore ten I had an offer of twenty-five 
francs ; and before noon, after a desperate 
engagement, I sold her, saddle and all, for 
five-and-thirty. The pecuniary gain is not 
obvious, but I had bought freedom into 
the bargain. 



Farewell, Modestine 207 

St. Jean du Gard is a large place and 
largely Protestant. The maire, a. Protes- 
tant, asked me to help him in a small 
matter which is itself characteristic of the 
country. The young women of the Cevennes 
profit by the common religion and the dif- 
ference of the language to go largely as 
governesses into England ; and here was 
one, a native of Mialet, struggling with 
English circulars from two different agencies 
in London. I gave what help I could ; and 
volunteered some advice, which struck me 
as being excellent. 

One thing more I note. The phylloxera 
has ravaged the vineyards in this neigh- 
bourhood ; and in the early morning, under 
some chestnuts by the river, I found a 
party of men working with a cider-press. 
I could not at first make out what they 
were after, and asked one fellow to ex- 
plain. 

1 Making cider,' he said. ' Out, c'est comme 
qa. Comme dans le nord ! * 

There was a ring of sarcasm in his voice : 
the country was going to the devil. 



208 The Country of the Camzsards 

It was not until I was fairly seated by 

the driver, and rattling through a rocky 

valley with dwarf olives, that I became 

aware of my bereavement. I had lost 

Modestine. Up to that moment I had 

thought I hated her ; but now she was 

gone, 

'And, O, 

The difference to me ! * 

For twelve days we had been fast compan- 
ions ; we had travelled upwards of a hun- 
dred and twenty miles, crossed several re- 
spectable ridges, and jogged along with our 
six legs by many a rocky and many a boggy 
by-road. After the first day, although 
sometimes I was hurt and distant in man- 
ner, I still kept my patience ; and as for 
her, poor soul ! she had come to regard me 
as a god. She loved to eat out of my hand. 
She was patient, elegant in form, the colour 
of an ideal mouse, and inimitably small. 
Her faults were those of her race and sex ; 
her virtues were her own. Farewell, and if 
for ever — 
Father Adam wept when he sold her to 



Farewell, Modestine 209 

me ; after I had sold her in my turn, I was 
tempted to follow his example ; and being 
alone with a stage-driver and four or five 
agreeable young men, I did not hesitate to 
yield to my emotion. 
14 



THE WORKS OF 

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 



The Letters of Robert Louis Stevenson. 

Edited by Sidney Colvin. With drawings by Peixottc 
and Guerin. 2 vols., 8vo, $5.00 net. 



The following volumes, i2mo, red cloth, 25 volumes, 

in a box, $32.00. 

St. Ives. 

The Adventures of a French Prisoner in England. i2mo, $1.50. 

"St. Ives" is a story of action and adventure in the author's most buoyant and 
stirring manner. One does not expect to find commonplaces in Stevenson, but even 
his most ardent admirers may well be surprised at the grim tragedy in the opening 
chapters of " St. Ives." 

In the South Seas. 

With Map. i2mo, $1.50. 

This volume is made up of selections from the interesting sketches contributed 
to periodicals by Mr. Stevenson, narrating his experiences and observations in the 
Marquesas (the scene ot Melville's "Typee"), Paumotus, and the Gilbert Islands, 
gathered in the course of two cruises on the yacht "Casco " (1888) and the schooner 
"Equator" (1889). 

Weir of Hermiston. 

i2mo, $1.50. 

" Surely no son of Scotland has died, leaving with his last breath a worthier 
tribute to the land he loved." — Sidney Colvin. 

Poems and Ballads. 

i2mo, $1.50. 

Comprising all the poems contained in "A Child's Garden of Verses," 
"Ballads," "Underwoods," and, in addition, over forty pieces of verse written 
since the publication of these volumes. 

Kidnapped. 

Being Memoirs of the Adventures of David Balfour in the year 1751. 
With 16 full-page illustrations by William Hole. i2mo, $1.50. 

"Mr. Stevenson has never appeared to greater advantage than in 'Kidnapped.' 
No better book of its kind has ever been written." — The Nation. 

David Balfour. 

Being Memoirs of his Adventures at Home and Abroad. i2mo, $1.50. 

' ' Surely the rarest and noblest work of fiction in the English language produced 
in the year." — New York Times. 

Treasure Island. 

A Story or the Spanish Main. Illustrated. i2mo, $1.00. 

"Primarily it is a book for boys, but it is a book which will be delightful to all 
grown men who have the sentiment of treasure hunting. . . Like all Mr. Steven- 
son's good work, it is touched with genius. ... A masterpiece of narrative." 

— The Saturday Review. 



THE WORKS OF ROBERT LO UIS STEVENSON 
The Master of Ballantrae. 

A Winter's Tale. With 10 full-page illustrations by William Hole. 
i2mo, $1.50. 

" We have here a fresh and striking example of Mr. Stevenson's remarkable 
intellectual versatility and flexibility. It is a fine novel, realistic and romantic 
by turns, marked by rare skill of draughtmanship and vigor of imagination, 
an honor to the author and a credit to literature. "—A'ew y'ork Tribune. 

The Wrecker. 

By Robert Louis Stevenson and Lloyd Osbourne. With 12 
full-page illustrations by William Hole and W. L. Metcalf. 
i2mo, §1.50. 
M It seems much the most enticing romance at present before the world. " 

— Andrew Lang. 

Prince Otto. 

A Romance. i2mo, $1.00. 

" A graceful and unusual romance, full of surprises, full of that individuality 
which is so charming in every page this author has published, and so unhack- 
neyed that one knows not what to expect from any one paragraph to the next," 

— Boston Courier. 

The Merry Men, 

And Other Tales and Fables, and Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. 

l2mo, $1.25. 

" Everything in the collection is worthv of its remarkable author." 

— The Independent. 

The Black Arrow. 

A Tale of the Two Roses. Illustrated by Will H. Low and Alfred 
Brennan. i2mo, $1.25. 
"It has all the good qualities of bis other stories— their invention, their 
spirit and their charming English. The hand that wrote ' Kidnapped ' is vis- 
ible in its stirring pages."— R. H. Stoddard. 

New Arabian Nights. 

i2mo, $1.25. 
u There is something In his work which engages and fixes the attention from 
the first page to the last, which shapes itself before the mind's eye while reading, 
and which refuses to be forgotten long after the book has been put away." 

— R. H. Stoddard. 

The Dynamiter. 

More New Arabian Nights. By Robert Louis Stevenson and 
Mrs. Stevenson. i2mo, Si. 25. 

M There is no writer in the English language to-day who can alternately touch 
the springs of tears and laughter as does this man, who weaves as delicious fancies 
as ever passed through the brain." — Philadelphia Times. 

Island Nights' Entertainments. 

Illustrated. i2mo, $1.25. 

44 The book will be reckoned among the finest of Mr. Stevenson's works. The 
art of it is so nearly perfect that it seems spontaneous, and the matter is absolutely 
unique." — Boston Beacon. 

The Wrong Box. 

By Robert Louis Stevenson and Lloyd Osbourne. i2mo, $1.25. 

44 It brings out more strongly than any of Mr. Stevenson's preceding works his 
facile wit and irresistible humor." — Chicago Tribune. 



THE WORKS OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVEN SO ft 

Virginibus Puerisque. 

And Other Papers. i2mo, $1.25. 

" Avowedly the book of a young man taking account of life from the starting 
point. There is a great deal in it which is individual, suggestive, and direct from 
life. ' There are sayings about Truth of Intercourse which penetrate a long way. 
There are passages concerning youth which probe to the quick some of its ailments 
and errors."— A tlantic Monthly. 

Memories and Portraits. 

I2mc, $1.25. 

" The grace and delicacy, the just artistic instinct, the curious aptness of phrase 
■which distinguish these essays, can be fully appreciated only by a reader who loves 
to go back to them again and again after a first perusal." — LippincoW s Magazine. 

Memoir of Fleeming Jenkin. 

i2mo, $1.25. 

*' The glimpses that we get of Mr. Stevenson himself in this book are charming 
and add greatly to its edifying and entertaining character. The style of the nar- 
rative is original, lucid, and spirited." — Boston Saturday Evening Gazette. 

Familiar Studies of Men and Books. 

i2mo, $1.25. 

Contents : Victor Hugo's Romances, Some Aspects of Robert Burns, Walt 
Whitman, Henry David Thoreau, Yoshida Torajiro, Francois Villon, Charles of 
Orleans, Samuel Pepys, John Knox, and Women. 

An Inland Voyage. 

i2mo, $1.00. 
" Mr. Stevenson does not make canoeing itself his main theme, but delights in 
charming bits of description that, in their close attention to picturesque detail, 
Temind one of the work of a skilled ' genre ' painter. Nor does he hesitate .... 
to indulge in a strain of gently humorous reflection that furnishes some of the 
pleasantest passages of the book." — Good Literature, 

Travels with a Donkey 

In the Cevennes. i2mo, $1.00. 

" The author sees everything with the eye of a philosopher. He has a steady 
flow of humor that is as apparently spontaneous as a mountain brook, and he 
views a landscape or a human figure, not only as a tourist seeking subjects for a 
book, but as an^artist to whom the slightest line or tint carries a definite impres- 
sion." — Boston Courier. 

The Silverado Squatters. 

With a frontispiece by Walter Crane. i2mo, $1.00. 

" The interest of the book centres in graphic style and keen observation of the 
author. He has the power of describing places and characters with such vividness 
that you seem to have made personal acquaintance with both." — JV. Y. World. 

Across the Plains. 

With Other Memories and Essays. i2mo, $1.25. 

" The book sets us again to wondering at the facility with which Mr. Stevenson 
makes phrases and builds paragraphs ; moreover, we renew our admiration for a 
style as subtle as ether and as brilliant as fire opal."— The Independent. 

A Foot=Note to History. 

Eight Years of Trouble in Samoa. i2mo, $1.50. 

"A story well worth reading. We have first a description of the curious and 
complex elements of discord, both native and foreign, in Samoa, and then a mar- 
velous story of how these discordant elements have been at work during eight 
rears."— Public Opinion. 



THE WORKS OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 

The following volumes, i6mo, green buckram, 6 volu??ies 1 

in a box, $6.50. 

Fables. i6mo, $1.00. 

In these delightful fables will be found a new and interesting expression of Mr. 
Stevenson's genius. They are here collected and issued for the first time in book 
form, attractively bound, in uniform style with the " Vailima Letters." 

Vailima Letters. 2 vols., i6mo, $2.25. 

"The work is full of charm, of brightness, of changeful light and shadow and 
thick-coming fancies. Again it is readable in a high degree, and will, we make no 
doubt, delight thousands of readers." — London Spectator. 

Macaire. A Melodramatic 
Farce. By R. L. Stevenson 
and W. E. Henley. i6mo, 
$1.00. 



The Ebb Tide. i6mo, $1.25. 

The Amateur Emigrant. 

i6mo, $1.25. 



IN SPECIAL EDITIONS. 

A Child's Garden of Verses. 

New Edition. Profusely and beautifully illustrated by Charles 
Robinson. i2mo, $1.50. 
"An edition to be recommended in every way. An artist possessing a graceful 
fancy and a sure decorative sense has supplied a profusion of illustrations. The 
letter-press is beautiful." — N. Y. Evening Post. 



A Christmas Sermon. i6mo, 

net, 50 cents. 
Ballads. i2mo, $1.00. 

A Child's Garden of Verses. 

i2mo, $1.00. 

Virginibus Puerisque. 

Cameo Edition. i6mo, $1.25. 

Underwoods. i2mo, $1.00. 



Treasure Island. Illustrated, 

i2mo, $1.25. 

Three Plays. By R. L. Ste- 
venson and W. E. Henley. 
8vo, $2.00 net. 

The Suicide Club. {Ivory 
Series. ~\ i6mo, 75 cents. 

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. 
i2mo, $1.00. 



THE THISTLE EDITION. 

Sold only by Subscription. Each vol. 8vo. $2.00 net. 

In this luxurious edition of Mr. Stevenson's works, the Novels 
and Tales occupy twelve volumes, the Travels and Essays four, the 
Poems are complete in a single volume, and the Letters and Mis- 
cellanies seven, or 24 volumes in all. Each volume has a photo- 
gravure or etched frontispiece. 

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 

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